THE  GREAT  POETS 
of  ITALY 


W  OscarKiiJfins 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 


LORENZO   DE  MEDICI 


THE     GREAT     POETS 
OF   ITALY 

TOGETHER   WITH 

A  BRIEF    CONNECTING    SKETCH 

OP  ITALIAN   LITERATURE 

BY 

OSCAR  KUHISTS 

PBOFE8SOB  IN   WESLEYAN  UNIVERSITY 

WITH    PORTRAITS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

fliticrs'ibe  press  Cambritige 


COPYRIGHT,    1903,    BY  OSCAR    KUHNS 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  November,  tgoj 


To  the  Memory  of  my  Brother 
HENRY  CLARENCE  KUHNS 

whose  unfailing  kindness  alone  made  possible  for  me 
an  academic  career.  His  heart  was  gentle  and  fitted 
with  unselfish  love  for  others  ;  and  the  conduct  of  hi$ 
life  was  such  that  those  who  knew  him  best,  know 
of  a  surety  that  he  is  now  among  those  blessed  dead 
who  have  died  in  the  Lord. 

(if  /toAicrru  KadiKcro  TreVflos  aXaarov.    ODYSSEY  I.,  842. 


PREFACE 

THE  body  of  this  book  formed  the  second  part  of 
a  volume  on  the  Latin  and  Italian  poets,  prepared, 
in  collaboration  with  Professor  F.  J.  Miller,  of 
Chicago  University,  for  the  Chautauqua  Literary 
and  Scientific  Circle  (1901-1902).  In  rearranging 
this  material  for  a  wider  public,  two  new  chapters 
have  been  added,  while  extensive  changes  have 
been  made  in  the  rest  of  the  book.  Being  in  Italy 
when  the  chapters  on  Dante  were  written,  I  found 
myself  unable  to  procure  a  copy  of  Rossetti's  or 
Norton's  translation  of  the  "  New  Life,"  and  was 
thus  obliged  to  make  my  own  version  of  the  pas- 
sages quoted  from  that  work. 

I  desire  to  thank  the  following  publishers  for 
their  courtesy  in  allowing  me  to  use  the  various 
translations  quoted  in  this  book :  Houghton,  Mifflin 
&  Co.  (Longfellow's  translation  of  the  "Divine 
Comedy  "),  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co., 
John  Lane,  F.  A.  Stokes  Co.,  Harper  &  Brothers. 

OSCAR  KUHNS. 

MIDDLE-TOWN,  CONN.,  October  28,  1903. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTBB 

I.  THE  ORIGINS  OF  ITALIAN  LITERATURE    .        .1 

II.   DANTE  :  His  LIFE  AND  MINOR  WORKS        .  27 

III.  THE  DIVINE  COMEDY 54 

IV.  PETRARCH  AND  BOCCACCIO  ....  117 
V.  THE  RENAISSANCE 167 

VI.  ARIOSTO 188 

VII.  TASSO 215 

VIII.  THE  PERIOD  OF  DECADENCE  AND  THE  REVIVAL  251 

IX.  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY    .                       .  284 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAOI 

LORENZO  DE'  MEDICI  (page  179)        .        .       Frontispiece 
From  the  painting  by  Giorgio  Vasari  in  Uffizi  Gallery, 
Florence. 

DANTE         . ' 28 

From  the  death  mask   in  "The  Original  Portraits  of 
Dante,"  by  Charles  Eliot  Norton. 

PETRARCH 120 

From  the  fresco  by  Andrea  Castagno. 
BOCCACCIO 146 

From  the  fresco  by  Andrea  Castagno. 
POLITIAN 174 

From  the  engraving  by  P.  Caronni. 

MICHELANGELO 186 

From  the  painting  (attributed  to  Bugiardim)  in  the  Uffizi 
Gallery,  Florence. 

ARIOSTO 188 

From  the  engraving  by  Enea  Vico. 
TASSO 216 

After  the  painting  by  Pietro  Ermim. 
ALFIERI 264 

After  the  painting  by  V-  Gozzini. 
LEOPARDI 290 

After  the  drawing  by  G.  Turchi. 

CARDUCCI 310 

From  a  photograph. 

FOGAZZARO 340 

From  a  photograph. 


THE    GREAT    POETS 
OF   ITALY 


THE  ORIGINS   OF 
ITALIAN  LITERATURE 

P- 
ERHAPS  the  first  phenomenon  that  strikes  the 

attention  of  the  student  of  Italian  literature  is  its 
comparatively  recent  origin.  In  the  north  and 
south  of  France  the  Old  French  and  Provencal 
languages  had,  before  the  tenth  century,  begun  to 
develop  a  literature,  which  by  the  end  of  the  twelfth 
had  risen  to  a  high  degree  of  cultivation ;  indeed, 
by  that  time  Provencal  had  attained  its  highest 
point,  and  had  already  begun  to  decline.  In  Italy, 
however,  we  cannot  trace  the  beginning  of  a  litera- 
ture, properly  so-called,  further  back  than  the  thir- 
teenth century. 

Among  the  various  causes  which  may  be  assigned 
for  this  phenomenon,  the  most  important  undoubt- 
edly is  the  fact  that  the  Italians  have  always  looked 
on  themselves  as  of  one  race  with  the  ancient 

1 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Romans,  and  the  heirs  of  all  the  glorious  traditions 
attached  to  the  names  of  the  heroes,  poets,  and  ar- 
tists of  the  Eternal  City.  In  similar  manner  they 
regarded  Latin  as  their  true  mother-tongue,  of 
which  the  vernacular  was  a  mere  corruption. 
Hence  it  came  to  pass  that  all  the  literature  which 
we  find  in  Italy  before  the  thirteenth  century,  and 
a  large  proportion  of  that  written  in  the  fourteenth, 
fifteenth,  and  sixteenth  centuries,  was  in  Latin  and 
not  in  Italian,  which  seemed  to  the  writers  of  those 
days  unworthy  of  forming  the  medium  of  expres- 
sion in  poetry  and  learning. 

This  feeling  of  kinship  was  a  natural  one  for 
those  who  lived  in  the  same  cities  in  which  the  Ro- 
mans had  lived,  surrounded  by  the  imposing  ruins 
of  the  ancient  world,  speaking  a  language  which, 
although  essentially  a  modern  one,  was  still  nearer 
to  Latin  than  French,  Provencal  or  Spanish.  For 
these  men  the  irruptions  of  the  Northern  barba- 
rians,—  the  Goths,  the  Lombards,  and  later  the 
Normans,  —  were  only  a  break  in  the  continuity  of 
the  historical  development  of  the  Latin  race  in 
Italy.  This  spirit  —  which  explains  the  popularity 
and  temporary  success  of  Arnold  of  Brescia,  in  the 
twelfth  century,  and  of  Cola  di  Rienzi,  in  the 
fourteenth,  in  their  efforts  to  restore  the  old  forms 

2 


ORIGINS   OF  ITALIAN  LITERATURE 

of  the  Roman  republic  —  must  be  kept  constantly 
in  mind,  by  the  student,  not  only  of  the  political 
history  of  Italy,  but  of  its  literature  and  art  as 
well. 

Yet  this  natural  feeling  does  not  rest  altogether 
on  fact.  The  Italians  of  to-day  are  not  the  pure  de- 
scendants of  the  ancient  Romans,  but,  like  the  other 
so-called  Latin  races,  are  of  mixed  origin,  more 
nearly  related,  it  is  true,  to  the  Romans,  yet  in  gen- 
eral formed  by  the  same  ethnical  process  as  their 
neighbors. 

With  the  downfall  of  Rome,  Italy,  like  France 
and  Spain,  was  overrun  by  the  hordes  of  German 
tribes,  which,  leaving  the  cold  and  inhospitable  re- 
gions of  the  North,  sought  for  more  congenial  climes 
in  the  sunny  South.  As  the  Franks  in  France,  the 
Visigoths  and  Vandals  in  Spain,  so  the  Ostrogoths 
in  Italy,  toward  the  end  of  the  fifth  century,  con- 
quered and  colonized  the  country,  and  under  Theo- 
doric  restored  for  a  brief  time  an  appearance  of 
prosperity.  In  the  sixth  century  came  the  Lom- 
bards, and  after  destroying  and  devastating  city  and 
country  as  far  south  as  Rome,  and  even  beyond, 
finally  settled  in  upper  Italy,  now  known  from  them 
as  Lombardy.  Several  centuries  later  came  the 
Normans  from  France  and  conquered  Sicily  and 

3 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

the  southern  extremity  of  the  peninsula.  All  these 
peoples  were  of  German  origin,  and  being  gradually 
merged  with  the  conquered  race,  formed  what  we 
now  call  the  Italian  people.1 

It  goes  without  saying  that  the  Latin  language 
was  profoundly  affected  by  all  these  changes.  Al- 
though the  German  invaders  gradually  adopted  the 
civilization  of  the  conquered  land,  including  the  lan- 
guage, yet  they  could  not  help  influencing  this  civ- 
ilization and  impressing  it  with  their  own  individual 
stamp. 

With  regard  to  the  language,  we  must  bear  in 
mind  that  even  iu  the  time  of  Vergil  and  Cicero, 
Latin  had  two  forms,  one  the  elegant  and  artificial 
language  of  literature,  and  the  other  the  idiom  of 
the  common  people,  or  the  vernacular.  Many  of  the 
peculiar  phonetic,  grammatical,  and  syntactical  phe- 
nomena which  characterize  the  modern  Romance 
languages  existed  in  this  so-called  "  vulgar  Latin," 
long  before  the  fall  of  Rome,  the  irruption  of  the 
Northern  barbarians,  and  the  consequent  formation 
of  new  nations  and  new  tongues. 

All  the  Romance  languages  have  been  derived 
from  this  "  vulgar  Latin,"  each  one  being  specially 

1  In  Southern  Italy,  especially  in  Sicily,  there  is  a  large  infusion 
of  Greek  and  Saracen  blood. 

4 


ORIGINS  OF  ITALIAN   LITERATURE 

influenced  by  its  peculiar  environments,  and  by  the 
various  German,  Celtic,  and  other  dialects  to  which 
it  was  subjected.  Thus  the  "  vulgar  Latin "  im- 
ported by  Roman  colonists  into  Gaul,  and  influ- 
enced by  the  Franks,  produced  the  French  lan- 
guage ;  in  the  same  way  "  vulgar  Latin,"  plus  the 
various  local  and  foreign  influences  to  which  it  was 
subjected  in  Italy,  produced  the  various  dialects  of 
that  country,  Venetian,  Tuscan,  Neapolitan,  and 
Sicilian.  While  literary  Latin,  although  becoming 
more  and  more  corrupt  as  the  years  went  by,  con- 
tinued in  Italy  to  be  the  language  of  the  church,  of 
the  courts  of  law,  and  of  what  literature  there  was, 
the  vernacular  —  i.  e.,  the  various  dialects  —  was 
used  in  all  the  operations  of  daily  life. 

We  have  evidence  that  this  popular  tongue 
must  have  been  in  existence  as  far  back  as  the 
seventh  century,  for  in  Latin  public  documents 
dating  from  that  period  on,  we  find  occasional 
words  and  fragments  of  phrases,  —  especially  the 
names  of  persons  and  places, — which  are  marked  by 
the  special  characteristics  of  the  Italian  language. 
These  expressions,  embedded  in  the  Latin  docu- 
ments, like  pebbles  in  sand,  become  more  and  more 
numerous  as  we  approach  the  tenth  century,  until 
finally,  in  the  year  960,  we  meet  for  the  first  time 

5 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

with  a  complete  Italian  sentence,  in  a  legal  docu- 
ment concerning  the  boundaries  of  a  certain  piece 
of  property  in  Capua ;  four  years  later  we  find 
almost  the  same  formula  in  a  similar  document. 
Toward  the  end  of  the  eleventh  century  certain 
frescoes  were  painted  in  the  lower  church  of  Saint 
Clement  in  Rome,  where  they  may  still  be  seen, 
and  among  them  is  one  beneath  which  is  found  an 
explanation  in  Italian. 

In  spite  of  the  fact,  however,  that  these  monu- 
ments of  early  Italian  increase  from  year  to  year, 
they  were  not  numerous  before  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury. The  very  scarcity  of  them  shows  the  tenacity 
with  which  the  people  clung  to  the  traditions  of 
Rome,  for  not  only  literature,  but  even  public  and 
private  documents  were  written  in  Latin.  This  lit- 
erary tradition  never  wholly  died  out  in  Italy,  even 
in  the  darkest  days  of  her  history.  It  is  true  that 
in  the  terrible  disorders  that  accompanied  the  slow 
agony  of  dying  Rome,  a  long  period  of  darkness 
and  ignorance  set  in.  The  empire  was  split  into 
two  parts  and  the  seat  of  the  emperor  was  trans- 
ferred to  Constantinople  ;  the  Goths  and  Lombards 
conquered  the  north  of  Italy,  the  Saracens  and  Nor- 
mans the  south.  All  through  the  Dark  Ages  Italy 
was  the  prey  of  foreign  marauders ;  the  Huns  — • 

6 


ORIGINS   OF  ITALIAN  LITERATURE 

those  scourges  of  the  nations  —  came  as  far  as 
Rome ;  the  Arabs  obtained  foothold  in  Sicily, 
scoured  the  seas,  and  even  ravaged  the  Campagna 
up  to  the  very  walls  of  the  Eternal  City. 

Not  only  did  devoted  Italy  suffer  from  outsiders, 
but  discord  and  civil  conflicts  rent  her  very  entrails. 
When  Charlemagne  was  crowned  emperor  in  800 
by  Pope  Leo  III.,  as  a  reward  for  having  defended 
Rome  against  the  incursions  of  the  Lombards,  it 
was  thought  that  the  reestablishment  of  the  Roman 
empire  would  bring  in  a  new  era  of  peace  and  glory. 
With  the  death  of  the  great  king,  however,  anarchy 
once  more  reigned  supreme.  His  successors  in  the 
empire  (for  the  most  part  weaklings)  were  kept 
busy  with  the  affairs  of  Germany  and  regarded  Italy, 
"  the  garden  of  the  empire,"  as  Dante  calls  it,  with 
indifference.  In  Italy  itself  there  was  no  such  thing 
as  patriotism  or  feeling  of  national  unity.  The  peo- 
ple were  oppressed  by  the  nobles,  who  themselves 
were  in  a  continual  state  of  warfare  with  each  other. 
In  the  eleventh  century  a  new  power  arose  in  the 
form  of  free  cities,  chief  among  them  being  Venice, 
Genoa,  Pisa,  and  Florence.  These,  however,  only 
increased  the  disorder  which  already  existed ;  city 
fought  with  city,  and  even  within  the  same  walls 
the  various  families  formed  parties  and  feuds,  which 

7 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF   ITALY 

led  to  incessant  strife,  of  which  murder,  rapine,  and 
arson  were  the  usual  concomitants. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  in  the  midst  of  all  this  an- 
archy and  confusion,  Roman  civilization  almost  died 
out.  What  the  barbarians  had  spared,  the  church 
itself  tried  to  destroy.  Having  finally  triumphed 
over  pagan  Rome,  it  fought  pagan  civilization ;  the 
early  Christian  fathers  looked  on  art  and  literature 
as  the  work  of  demons ;  the  clergy  were  forbidden 
to  read  the  classic  writers  except  for  grammatical 
purposes,  the  subject  matter  being  deemed  poison- 
ous to  the  souls  of  Christians.  Even  so  great  a 
man  as  Pope  Gregory  despised  classical  antiquity. 
During  the  long  period  when  Italy  was  the  prey 
of  Saracen  and  Hun,  when  pestilence  and  famine 
stalked  gauntly  through  the  desolated  land,  civiliza- 
tion sank  to  its  lowest  point.  Superstition  and  as- 
ceticism held  full  sway  in  religion  ;  men  sought  re- 
lief from  the  sufferings  of  the  life  that  now  is  in  the 
contemplation  of  a  new  and  happier  state  in  the  life 
to  come.  Hence  arose  the  widespread  conviction 
that  God  is  best  pleased  with  those  who  despise  this 
life,  with  all  its  beauty  and  pleasure,  pride  and 
glory,  pomp  and  power. 

In  spite  of  this  apparent  death,  however,  a 
spark  of  life  still  existed.  Through  all  this  dolorous 

8 


ORIGINS  OF  ITALIAN   LITERATURE 

period,  schools  could  be  found,  in  which  a  half -bar- 
barous Latin  was  rudely  taught,  as  being  the  lan- 
guage of  the  church.  There  never  was  a  time  when 
Latin  authors  were  not  read  to  some  extent  in 
school  and  monastery. 

With  the  eleventh  century  a  change  for  the  bet- 
ter began  in  the  intellectual,  as  well  as  in  the  polit- 
ical life  of  Italy.  The  rise  of  cities,  the  crusades, 
even  the  unholy  contest  between  pope  and  emperor 
gave  new  stimulus  to  the  minds  of  all,  and  led  to 
the  beginning  of  a  new  era.  The  defeat  of  the  Ger- 
man emperors  through  papal  intrigue  increased  the 
power  of  the  free  cities,  which  were  thus  made  in- 
dependent of  trans- Alpine  over-lordship,  and  which 
now  began  to  enter  upon  that  long  career  of  pros- 
perity and  intellectual  conquest  which  is  the  wonder 
of  the  student  of  the  mediaeval  history  of  Italy. 

This  intellectual  movement  of  the  eleventh  cen- 
tury, which  gave  a  new  and  strong  impulse  to  the 
study  of  philosophy  and  theology,  resulted  in  a  rich 
literature  in  these  departments  of  learning.  Peter 
Damian,  who  was  of  great  service  to  Gregory  VII. 
in  his  war  with  the  German  emperors,  became  a 
leader  in  the  study  of  philosophy  and  wrote  many 
celebrated  works.  Other  Italian  philosophers  and 
theologians,  Lanfranc,  Anselm,  and  Peter  Lombard, 

9 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

taught  in  foreign  schools.  In  the  thirteenth  cen« 
tury  Italy  produced  two  of  the  greatest  of  the  me- 
diaeval philosophers,  St.  Thomas  Aquinas  and  St. 
Bonaventura.  Later  the  newly  founded  University 
of  Bologna  became  the  centre  of  an  eager  study  of 
law,  which  resulted  in  the  writing  of  many  books 
on  jurisprudence. 

This  late  and  artificial  bloom  of  Latin  literature 
in  theology  and  philosophy  brought  the  necessity 
of  a  more  satisfactory  study  of  the  Latin  language 
itself.  Hence  many  new  grammars,  rhetorics,  and 
texts  were  written.  In  a  similar  manner  the  newly 
awakened  interest  in  science  (such  as  it  was) 
brought  in  a  new  class  of  books,  corresponding  to 
our  modern  encyclopaedias.  From  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury on,  all  over  Europe,  a  large  number  of  these 
compendiums  were  compiled,  containing  a  summary 
of  all  the  knowledge  of  the  times;  chief  among 
these  encyclopaedias  was  the  vast  Speculum  Majus 
(the  Greater  Mirror)  of  Vincent  of  Beauvais,  con- 
taining 82  books  and  9905  chapters.  Very  popu- 
lar, also,  were  the  moral  and  didactic  treatises. 
Symbolism  took  possession  of  all  literature.  The 
phenomena  of  nature  became  types  of  religious  life 
—  even  the  writings  of  pagan  antiquity  were  treated 
symbolically  and  made  to  reveal  prophecies  of  Chris- 
10 


ORIGINS  OF  ITALIAN   LITERATURE 

tian  doctrine ;  Vergil,  in  a  famous  passage,  was 
supposed  to  have  foretold  the  coming  of  the  Saviour, 
and  even  the  "  Ars  Amatoria  "  of  Ovid,  "  of  the 
earth  earthy,"  if  ever  poem  was,  was  interpreted  in 
terms  of  Christian  mysticism. 

All  the  above-mentioned  literature,  however,  so 
far  as  it  existed  in  Italy  before  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, was  written  in  Latin  ;  we  must  dismiss  it, 
therefore,  with  this  brief  mention,  and  pass  on  to 
the  true  subject  of  this  book,  Italian  literature  prop- 
erly so-called,  which,  as  we  have  already  seen,  can- 
not be  said  to  have  existed  before  the  thirteenth 
century. 

One  feature  which  is  largely  characteristic  of  all 
subsequent  periods  of  Italian  literature,  marks  the 
formative  period  thereof,  that  is,  a  comparative  lack 
of  invention  and  originality,  and  a  spirit  of  imi- 
tation of  other  literatures,  distant  either  in  time 
or  space.  In  order  to  trace  its  early  beginnings 
to  their  sources,  we  must  go  outside  the  borders 
of  Italy.  For  nearly  two  hundred  years  the  south  of 
France  had  been  the  home  of  a  large  number  of 
elegant  lyrical  poets,  whose  fame  and  influence  had 
spread  over  all  Europe.  These  troubadours,  as  they 
were  called,  were  welcomed  not  only  at  the  courts 
of  the  princes  and  nobles  of  Provence,  but  were 
11 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

likewise  honored  guests  in  Northern  France,  Spain, 
and  Italy.  The  latter  country  had  long  been  closely 
connected  with  the  south  of  France  by  means  of 
commerce  and  politics.  Hence  it  was  natural  for 
the  troubadours  to  seek  the  rewards  of  their  art  in 
the  brilliant  courts  of  Italy.  Toward  the  end  of 
the  twelfth  century  some  of  the  best  known  of  them, 
among  them  the  famous  Pierre  Vidal  and  Rambaud 
de  Vaqueiras,  made  their  way  thither.  After  the 
terrible  crusade  against  the  Albigenses,  —  which 
not  only  cruelly  slaughtered  tens  of  thousands  of 
earnest  Christians,  but  likewise  destroyed  forever 
the  independence  and  prosperity  of  Provence,  and 
thus,  by  destroying  the  courts  of  noble  families, 
put  a  sudden  stop  to  the  flourishing  literature,  — • 
large  numbers  of  the  wandering  minstrels  came  to 
Northern  Italy. 

It  was  not  long  before  their  influence  began  to 
manifest  itself  here,  first  in  the  north,  and  later  in 
the  south  and  centre.  The  North  Italian  poets  be- 
gan to  imitate  the  troubadours,  and  soon  a  consid- 
erable body  of  poetry  had  been  composed  by  native 
poets,  in  the  manner  and  —  a  phenomenon  worthy 
of  note  —  in  the  language  itself  of  their  Proven9al 
models.  This  is  due  to  the  relationship  between  the 
dialects  of  Northern  Italy  and  Provencal,  and  also 
12 


ORIGINS  OF  ITALIAN  LITERATURE 

to  the  fact  that  at  that  time  the  latter  tongue  was 
far  more  elegant  and  cultivated  than  the  other  Ro- 
mance languages.  This  North  Italian  poetry  is  al- 
ways included  In  the  Provencal  collections,  and  the 
writers  are  known  as  troubadours  in  spite  of  their 
Italian  nationality.  Among  the  most  famous  are 
Bartolomeo  Zorzi  of  Venice,  Bonifaccio  Calvo  of 
Genoa,  and  especially  Sordello  of  Mantua,  praised 
by  Dante  in  a  famous  passage  of  the  Purgatory, 
and  the  subject  of  Browning's  well-known  poem  of 
the  same  name. 

We  see,  then,  that  the  above  poets  belong  to  the 
history  of  Proven9al  literature,  rather  than  to  that 
of  Italian  literature.  To  find  the  first  springs 
of  national  poetry  in  Italy,  we  must  traverse  the 
whole  length  of  the  peninsula  and  arrive  at  the 
court  of  Frederick  II.  (1194-1250)  in  Sicily,  which 
at  this  time  was  far  ahead  of  the  rest  of  the  coun- 
try in  civilization,  art,  and  literature.  Frederick 
himself  was  a  many-sided  man,  warrior,  statesman, 
lawyer,  and  scholar,  and  stands  out  among  his 
contemporaries,  especially  in  matters  of  religious 
tolerance.  He  welcomed  to  his  court  not  only  the 
scholars,  poets,  and  artists  of  Europe,  but  likewise 
Arabs,  who  were  at  that  time  in  possession  of  a 
high  degree  of  culture.  He  caused  many  Greek 
13 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

and  Arab  authors  to  be  translated  into  Latin, 
among  them  Aristotle  ;  he  founded  the  University 
of  Naples ;  above  all,  by  his  own  mighty  personal- 
ity, he  made  a  deep  impression  on  the  times. 

Frederick's  ministers  were,  like  himself,  men  of 
culture  and  learning.  Chief  among  them  was  Pier 
delle  Vigne,  statesman  and  poet,  the  cause  of  whose 
tragic  death  by  his  own  hand  is  told  by  Dante  in 
the  "  Inferno."1 

The  influence  of  the  troubadours  made  itself  felt 
in  Sicily,  about  the  same  time  as  in  Northern  Italy, 
only  here  the  imitation  was  in  the  Italian  language 
and  not  in  Prove^al.  Among  the  early  Sicilian 
poets  who  wrote  after  the  manner  of  the  trouba- 
dours, was  the  Emperor  Frederick  II.  himself,  his 
son,  Enzo,  and  Pier  delle  Vigne.  From  an  aesthetic 
point  of  view,  this  early  indigenous  poetry  is  of 
little  interest,  but  as  the  beginning  of  a  movement 
which  culminated  in  the  "  New  Life  "  and  "  Divine 
Comedy  "  of  Dante,  it  is  of  very  great  importance. 

It  had  no  originality  or  freshness,  but  was  a  slav- 
ish imitation  of  Provencal  models,  the  conventionali- 
ties of  which  were  transported  bodily,  without  any 
change,  except  that  they  were  poorer.  Love  is  the 
only  theme,  and  the  type  always  remains  the  same. 

1  Canto  xiii. 

14 


ORIGINS   OF  ITALIAN  LITERATURE 

The  lover  is  humble,  a  feudal  vassal  of  his  lady  who 
stands  far  above  him,  all  beauty  and  virtue,  but  a 
cold  and  lifeless  abstraction.  She  usually  treats  her 
lover  with  disdain  or  indifference,  while  he  pours 
forth  the  protestations  of  his  love,  extols  her  beauty, 
and  laments  her  hardness  of  heart.  All  these  things, 
repeated  countless  times,  in  almost  the  same  lan- 
guage, became  monotonous  in  the  Provencal  poets, 
and  naturally  much  more  so  in  their  Italian  imi- 
tators. 

This  Sicilian  school  of  poetry  did  not  last  long  ; 
it  perished  with  the  downfall  of  the  Hohenstaufens. 
It  found  a  continuation,  however,  in  middle  Italy, 
especially  in  the  province  of  Tuscany,  which,  from 
this  time  on,  becomes  the  centre  of  the  literary  and 
artistic  life  of  Italy.  The  poetry  of  the  court  of 
Frederick  had  not  been  written  in  the  Sicilian  dia- 
lect, but  in  a  sort  of  court  language  not  very  dis- 
similar to  the  Tuscan.  It  is  probable  that  among 
the  poets  of  the  Sicilian  school  some  were  Tuscans, 
and  that  after  the  death  of  Frederick,  they  returned 
home,  bringing  with  them  the  poetical  doctrines 
which  they  had  learned. 

However  this  may  be,  we  find  a  direct  continua- 
tion of  the  movement  in  Tuscany.  We  see  the  same 
slavish  imitation  of  the  troubadours,  the  same  ideas, 
15 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

and  the  same  poetical  language  and  tricks  of  style. 
In  addition  to  the  influence  of  the  Sicilian  school, 
there  was  a  direct  imitation  of  the  Provencal  poets ; 
thus  Guittone  d'  Arezzo,  the  leader  of  the  early  Tus- 
can school,  wrote  and  spoke  Provencal,  and  Dante, 
in  his  "Purgatory,"  introduces  the  troubadour 
Arnaut  Daniel,  as  speaking  in  his  native  tongue. 
One  phase  of  Provencal  poetry,  the  political,  had 

—  strangely  enough  considering  the  stormy  times 

—  not  been  imitated  by   the  poets  at  the  court 
of  Frederick  II.    From  the  first,  however,  the  Tus- 
cans included  politics  in  their  poetry,  and  one  of 
the  strongest  of  Guittone' s  poems  is  a  song  on  the 
battle  of  Montaperti  (1260). 

Guittone  d'  Arezzo  is  the  direct  literary  ancestor 
of  Dante,  and  the  first  original  Italian  poet.  Hence 
he  deserves  a  word  or  two  even  in  this  brief  sketch. 
He  was  born  in  1230  near  Arezzo  in  Tuscany,  hence 
his  name.  After  a  youth  spent  in  the  pursuit  of 
pleasure,  he  was  converted,  and  looking  on  all 
things  earthly  as  mere  vanities,  he  left  his  wife  and 
family  and  joined  the  recently  founded  military-re- 
ligious order  of  the  Knights  of  St.  Mary.  He  died 
at  Florence  in  1294.  In  early  life  he  had  been  gay 
and  dissipated  ;  his  last  years  he  spent  hi  the  ex- 
ercises of  religious  asceticism.  These  two  parts  cor- 
16 


ORIGINS  OF  ITALIAN  LITERATURE 

respond  to  two  phases  of  his  poetry.  In  the  first  he 
was  a  follower  of  the  Sicilian  school  and  wrote  love 
poetry ;  in  the  second  he  discarded  this  "  foolish- 
ness "  and  wrote  political,  moral,  and  theological 
discussions  in  verse.  His  poetry  has  little  aesthetic 
value,  but  is  important  as  forming  a  transition  be- 
tween the  early  Sicilian  school  and  the  group  of 
poets,  the  greatest  member  of  which  was  Dante. 
His  writing  against  earthly  love  and  his  praise  of 
heavenly  love  marks  an  important  change  in  the 
development  of  Italian  poetry  and  opens  the  path 
which  leads  up  to  "  Beatrice "  and  the  "  Divine 
Comedy."  The  following  sonnet  to  the  Virgin  Mary 
gives  a  good  idea  of  the  religious  poetry  of  Guittone. 

Lady  of  Heaven,  the  mother  glorified 

Of  glory,  which  is  Jesus.  —  He  whose  death 

Us  from  the  gates  of  Hell  delivereth 
And  our  first  parents'  error  sets  aside :  — 
Behold  this  earthly  Love,  how  his  darts  glide  — 

How  sharpened  —  to  what  fate  —  throughout  this  earth ! 

Pitiful  mother,  partner  of  our  birth, 
Win  these  from  following  where  his  flight  doth  guide. 
And  O,  inspire  in  me  that  holy  love 

Which  leads  the  soul  hack  to  its  origin, 
Till  of  all  other  love  the  link  do  fail. 
This  water  only  can  this  fire  reprove,  — 

Only  such  cure  suffice  for  suchlike  sin ; 
As  nail  from  out  a  plank  is  struck  by  nail.1 

1  Translated  by  Rossetti. 
17 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

The  next  important  step  in  this  progress  is 
marked  by  Guido  Guinicelli,  a  learned  lawyer  and 
judge  of  Bologna  (situated  in  the  province  of  Ro- 
magna  and  separated  from  Tuscany  by  the  Apen- 
nines), a  city  which  at  that  time  was  the  seat  of  a 
flourishing  university  and  the  centre  of  a  keen 
intellectual  life. 

Guinicelli  was  born  about  1220,  was  prominent 
in  political  as  well  as  in  literary  circles,  was  ban- 
ished in  1274,  and  died  in  1276.  He  was  a  follower 
of  Guittone,  and  like  him  his  first  poetry  was  in  the 
manner  of  the  Sicilian  school.  He  changed  later 
and  began  a  new  school,  the  dolce  stil  miovo,  as 
Dante  calls  it.  The  change  shows  itself  especially 
in  the  new  conception  of  love,  and  of  its  origin, 
growth,  and  effects. 

The  troubadours  and  their  Sicilian  imitators  de- 
clared that  love  came  from  seeing,  that  it  entered 
through  the  eyes  of  the  beholder,  and  thence  de- 
scended to  the  heart.  Guinicelli  says,  on  the  con- 
trary, that  love  does  not  come  from  without,  but 
dwells,  "  as  a  bird  in  its  nest,"  in  the  heart  and  is 
an  attribute  thereof.  This  is  not  true,  however,  of 
all  men,  but  only  of  those  who  are  virtuous  and 
good.  Only  the  gentle  heart  can  love,  and  a  noble 
character  is  not  the  effect  of  love,  but  its  cause. 

18 


ORIGINS  OF  ITALIAN  LITERATURE 

Tiese  sentiments  are  expressed  in  the   following 
mes,  translated  by  Rossetti : 

Within  the  gentle  breast  Love  shelters  him, 

As  birds  within  the  green  shade  of  the  grove. 
Before  the  gentle  heart,  in  Nature's  scheme, 
Love  was  not,  or  the  gentle  heart  ere  Love. 

For  with  the  snn  at  once, 
So  sprang  the  light  immediately ;  nor  was 

Its  birth  before  the  son's. 
And  Love  hath  its  effect  in  gentleness 

Of  very  self ;  even  as 
Within  the  middle  fire  the  heat's  excess. 

The  fire  of  love  comes  to  the  gentle  heart 

Like  as  its  virtue  to  a  precious  stone ; 
To  which  no  star  its  influence  can  impart 
Till  it  is  made  a  pure  thing  by  the  sun : 

For  when  the  sun  hath  smit 
From  out  its  essence  that  which  there  was  vile, 

The  star  endoweth  it. 
And  so  the  heart  created  by  God's  breath 

Pure,  true,  and  clean  from  guile, 
A  woman,  like  a  star,  enamoureth. 

In  gentle  heart  Love  for  like  reason  is 

For  which  the  lamp's  high  flame  is  fanned  and  bow'd ; 
Clear,  piercing  bright,  it  shines  for  its  own  bliss ; 
Nor  would  it  burn  there  else,  it  is  so  proud. 

For  evil  natures  meet 
With  Love  as  it  were  water  met  with  fire, 

As  cold  abhorring  heat. 
Through  gentle  heart  Love  doth  a  track  divine,  — 

Like  knowing  like  ;  the  same 
As  diamond  runs  through  iron  in  the  mine. 
19 


The  sun  strikes  full  upon  the  mud  all  day  : 
It  remains  vile,  nor  the  sun's  worth  is  less. 
"  By  race  I  am  gentle,"  the  proud  man  doth  say : 
He  is  the  mud,  the  sun  is  gentleness. 

Let  no  man  predicate 
That  aught  the  name  of  gentleness  should  have, 

Even  in  a  king's  estate, 
Except  the  heart  there  he  a  gentle  man's. 

The  star-beam  lights  the  wave,  — 
Heaven  holds  the  star  and  the  star's  radiance. 

God,  in  the  understanding  of  high  Heaven, 

Burns  more  than  in  our  sight  the  living  sun : 
There  to  behold  His  Face  unveiled  is  given  ; 
And  Heaven,  whose  will  is  homage  paid  to  One, 

Fulfils  the  things  which  live 
In  God,  from  the  beginning  excellent. 

So  should  my  lady  give 
That  truth  which  in  her  eyes  is  glorified. 

On  which  her  heart  is  bent, 
To  me  whose  service  waiteth  at  her  side. 

My  lady,  God  shall  ask,  "  What  daredst  thou  ? 

(When  my  soul  stands  with  all  her  acts  review'd;) 
Thou  passedst  Heaven,  into  My  sight,  as  now, 
To  make  Me  of  vain  love  similitude. 

To  me  doth  praise  belong, 
And  to  the  Queen  of  all  the  realm  of  grace 

Who  slayeth  fraud  and  wrong." 
Then  may  I  plead  :  "  As  though  from  Thee  he  came, 

Love  wore  an  angel's  face : 
Lord,  if  I  loved  her,  count  it  not  my  shame." 


20 


ORIGINS  OF  ITALIAN   LITERATURE 

Whereas,  the  love  of  the  troubadours  was  ro- 
mantic and  chivalrous,  the  love  of  Guinicelli  was 
intellectual  and  philosophical.  With  him  earthly 
affections  become  purified  and  spiritualized.  The 
old  repertory  of  conventional  expressions  is  grad- 
ually discarded,  and  new  forms  take  its  place, 
soon  to  become  conventional  in  their  turn.  Love 
and  the  poet's  Lady  remain  abstract,  but  have  now 
a  different  signification.  The  Lady  is  still  treated 
as  a  perfect  being,  but  she  becomes  now  a  symbol 
of  something  higher.  Love  for  her  leads  to  virtue 
and  to  God ;  poetry  receives  an  allegorical  char- 
acter, and  its  real  end  becomes  the  inculcation  of 
philosophical  truth  under  the  veil  of  earthly  love. 
The  importance  of  Guinicelli  for  us  is  his  influence 
on  Dante,  for  the  new  school  was  not  continued  in 
Bologna,  but  found  its  chief  followers  in  Florence. 
We  are  thus  led  naturally  up  to  the  works  of  the 
great  Florentine  poet  whom  we  shall  study  in  the 
next  two  chapters. 

In  the  meantime,  however,  we  must  cast  a  brief 
glance  at  certain  other  early  phases  of  Italian  liter- 
ature, which  later  developed  into  important  branches 
of  poetry  and  prose. 

Northern  Italy,  as  we  have  seen,  had  no  share  in 
beginning  an  indigenous  lyrical  poetry.  It  did, 
21 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

however,  have  an  early  literature  of  its  own,  in  the 
form  of  religious  and  didactic  poetry,  for  the  most 
part  translations  from  Latin  and  French  originals. 
In  Umbria,  the  home  of  St.  Francis,  and  the  centre 
of  those  waves  of  religious  excitement,  which  so 
profoundly  affected  Italy  in  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, a  popular  religious  lyric  arose.  St.  Francis 
himself  deserves  some  mention  in  literary  history, 
if  only,  on  account  of  his  famous  song  of  praise, 
which  he  instructed  his  followers  to  sing  as  they 
wandered,  like  spiritual  troubadours,  through  the 
land.  He  was  no  mere  ascetic,  but  loved  the  beauty 
of  nature  and  had  a  tender  love  for  all  creatures. 
Quaintly  enough,  he  was  wont  to  call  birds  and  ani- 
mals, and  even  inanimate  objects,  such  as  the  sun 
and  moon,  by  the  name  of  brother  and  sister.1 
Among  his  followers  was  Thomas  of  Celano,  who 
wrote  that  most  solemn  and  majestic  of  all  Latin 
hymns,  "  Dies  Irae." 

The  astonishing  popularity  and  spread  of  the  new 
order  founded  by  St.  Francis  can  only  be  explained 
by  the  terrible  sufferings  of  the  times.  All  Italy 
was  stirred  by  deep  religious  excitement.  In  1233, 
the  movement  reached  its  high-water  mark.  Old 
and  young,  high  and  low,  leaving  their  ordinary 

1  His  last  words  were,  "  Welcome,  sister  death." 
22 


ORIGINS   OF  ITALIAN  LITERATURE 

occupations  and  business,  marched  in  processions 
through  the  land  singing  pious  songs ;  the  country 
folk  streamed  to  the  cities  to  hear  the  sermons 
which  were  given  morning,  noon,  and  night. 

About  the  year  1260,  a  similar  movement  started, 
that  of  the  Flagellants,  so-called  from  their  custom 
of  carrying  whips  with  which  they  lashed  them- 
selves in  token  of  repentance.  The  times  were  dark 
and  stormy,  the  never-ending  feuds  between  the 
papal  and  imperial  parties  brought  in  their  train 
murder  and  rapine,  while  famine  and  pestilence 
stalked  through  the  land.  Suddenly  a  priest,  named 
Fasani,  appeared  in  Perugia,  who  said  that  he  had 
been  sent  by  heaven  to  prophesy  terrible  punish- 
ments on  a  sinful  world.  Once  more  the  processions 
began,  and  the  aroused  and  penitent  multitudes 
moved  through  the  land,  lashing  themselves  with 
whips  and  singing  pious  songs. 

The  literary  effect  of  all  this  religious  excitement 
was  far-reaching,  especially  important  for  us  in  that 
it  prepared  the  way  for  Dante,  not  only  by  creating 
the  proper  atmosphere,  but  by  the  production  of 
hymns  and  visionary  journeys  into  the  unseen  world. 
The  religious  lyrics  or  hymns,  which  the  multitudes 
sang,  were  known  as  Laudi,  or  songs  of  praise. 
They  were  not  the  artificial  imitation  of  foreign 
23 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

poets,  like  the  early  Sicilian  and  Tuscan  poetry,  but 
the  genuine  product  of  the  soil.  They  were  com- 
posed for  and  sung  by  the  great  mass  of  the  people 
who  could  not  understand  Latin.  They  were  spread 
far  and  wide  and  made  popular  by  the  Flagellants, 
and  thus  became  true  folk-songs. 

The  most  famous  of  the  writers  of  these  Laudi 
in  the  thirteenth  century  was  Jacopone  da  Todi, 
the  story  of  whose  conversion  is  extremely  touching. 
He  was  a  rich  young  lawyer  of  Florence,  full  of 
the  pride  of  life.  At  a  certain  festivity  his  wife  was 
killed  by  an  accident,  and  under  her  costly  gar- 
ments was  found,  next  to  her  skin,  a  hair-shirt, 
such  as  was  worn  by  penitents.  The  tragic  death 
of  his  wife  and  this  evidence  of  her  religious  feel- 
ings converted  the  once  proud  Jacopone,  who  joined 
a  religious  order  and  devoted  the  rest  of  his  life  to 
the  service  of  God.1  Besides  being  the  author  of  a 

1  Matthew  Arnold  makes  a  beautiful  application  of  this  story 
in  his  sonnet  Austerity  of  Poetry  — 

That  son  of  Italy  who  tried  to  blow, 
Ere  Dante  came,  the  trump  of  sacred  song, 
In  his  light  youth  amid  a  festal  throng 
Sate  with  his  bride  to  see  a  public  show. 

Fair  was  the  bride,  and  on  her  front  did  glow 
Youth  like  a  star ;  and  what  to  youth  belong  — 
Gay  raiment,  sparkling  gauds,  elation  strong. 
A  prop  gave  way  !  crash  fell  a  platform !  lo, 

24 


ORIGINS   OF  ITALIAN  LITERATURE 

number  of  Laudi  and  religious  poems,  he  probably 
wrote  the  famous  Latin  hymn,  Stabat  Mater. 

Before  we  close  this  chapter  we  must  say  a  word 
or  two  concerning  another  branch  of  early  litera- 
ture whose  influence  is  not  great  on  Dante  or  his 
immediate  successors,  but  which  was  destined  to 
bloom  forth  later  in  a  new  kind  of  poetry,  which 
has  become  the  peculiar  glory  of  Italy.  The  intro- 
duction into  Italy  of  the  French  national  heroic 
epic  (the  chansons  de  geste)  began  about  the  same 
time  as  the  introduction  of  the  Provensal  lyric.  In 
Northern  Italy  these  romances  were  not  only  read 
but  imitated,  and  about  the  second  half  of  the  thir- 
teenth century,  arose  a  mongrel  sort  of  literature, 
written  in  a  language  half  French,  half  Italian. 
The  most  popular  of  these  poems  were  those  deal- 
ing with  Charlemagne,  who,  as  the  protector  of  the 
pope  and  the  restorer  of  the  Roman  empire,  was 
looked  upon  by  the  Italians  as  one  of  their  own 
race.  These  old  chansons  de  geste,  however,  in 
coming  to  Italy,  lost  much  of  their  original  signifi- 

'Mid  struggling  sufferers,  hurt  to  death,  she  lay ; 
Shuddering  they  drew  her  garments  off  —  and  found 
A  robe  of  sackcloth  next  the  smooth  white  skin. 
Such,  poets,  is  your  bride,  the  Muse  !  young,  gay, 
Radiant,  adorn'd  outside ;  a  hidden  ground 
Of  thought  and  of  austerity  within. 

25 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

cance.  The  spirit  and  ideals  could  scarcely  be 
understood  by  the  Italians,  to  whom  feudal  society 
was  largely  unknown.  What  they  liked  in  the 
French  romances  was  not  religious  or  patriotic  sen- 
timents, but  adventures  and  the  wonderful  deeds 
of  the  heroes.  The  object,  then,  of  the  rude  early 
writers  of  the  Franco-Italian  epic  was  to  interest 
their  hearers  and  arouse  curiosity.  Hence  they 
became  monopolized  by  wandering  minstrels,  who 
sang  in  the  streets  and  public  squares  to  the  people 
who  gathered  about  them,  much  as  their  descendants 
gather  about  the  Punch  and  Judy  shows  and  the 
wandering  musicians  of  to-day.  For  nearly  two  hun- 
dred years  the  French  romances  existed  in  Italy  in 
this  humble  state,  until,  as  we  shall  see  later,  they 
were  incorporated  into  regular  literature  by  Pulci, 
Boiardo,  and  Ariosto.1 

1  For  the  early  period  of  Italian  literature,  the  hest  authority  is 
Gaspary,  who  wrote  in  German,  but  the  first  volume  of  whose 
work  has  just  been  translated  into  English,  and  published  in  the 
Bohn  Library.  An  indispensable  book  is  Rossetti's  Dante  and 
his  Circle,  which  contains  many  excellent  translations  from  the 
early  poets  of  Italy. 


26 


II 

DANTE:  HIS  LIFE  AND 
MINOR  WORKS 

JL.N  the  preceding  chapter  we  have  outlined  the 
development  of  early  Italian  poetry,  endeavoring 
to  show  how  from  the  Sicilian  school  it  was  carried 
over  to  Central  Italy ;  how  Guido  Guinicelli,  in 
Bologna,  had  transformed  it  from  a  slavish  imita- 
tion of  the  troubadours  into  a  new  school  of  sym- 
bolical philosophical  poetry,  and  finally,  how  from 
Bologna  the  new  doctrines  spread  to  Tuscany. 

There  were  a  number  of  early  poets  of  Florence 
and  other  Tuscan  cities  who  wrote  in  the  manner 
of  Guido  Guinicelli,  among  the  best  known  being 
Cino  da  Pistoia,  Lapo  Gianni,  Dante  da  Majano, 
and,  especially  worthy  of  note,  Guido  Cavalcanti. 
The  latter,  who  was  the  intimate  friend  of  Dante, 
was  a  member  of  a  noble  family,  and  was  promi- 
nent in  all  the  intellectual  and  political  life  of 
Florence.  He  was  among  those  who  were  exiled 
from  the  city  in  1300,  and  died  soon  after  his  re- 
27 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

turn  in  the  same  year.  Dante  refers  to  him  in  the 
"New  Life  "  as  the  "  first  of  his  friends,"  and  records 
in  the  Inferno  a  pathetic  interview  with  his  father 
in  the  city  of  Dis.  To  him  and  a  mutual  friend 
Lapo,  he  addressed  the  following  beautiful  sonnet, 
so  well  translated  by  Shelley :  — 

Guido,  I  would  that  Lapo,  thou  and  I, 

Led  by  some  strong  enchantment,  might  ascend 

A  magic  ship,  whose  charmed  sails  should  fly, 

With  winds  at  will  where'er  our  thoughts  might  wend, 

And  that  no  change,  nor  any  evil  chance 

Should  mar  our  joyous  voyage  ;  but  it  might  be, 

That  even  satiety  should  still  enhance 

Between  our  hearts  their  strict  community ; 

And  that  the  bounteous  wizard  then  would  place 

Vanna  and  Bice  and  my  gentle  love, 

Companions  of  our  wandering,  and  would  grace 

With  passionate  talk,  wherever  we  might  rove, 

Our  time,  and  each  were  as  content  and  free 

As  I  believe  that  thou  and  I  should  be. 

As  a  sample  of  Guido  Cavalcanti's  own  poetical 
skill  we  may  take  the  following  sonnet,  translated 
by  Gary :  — 

Whatso  is  fair  in  lady's  face  or  mind, 
And  gentle  knights  caparison'd  and  gay, 

Singing  of  sweet  birds  unto  love  inclined, 
And  gallant  barks  that  cut  the  watery  way ; 

The  white  snow  falling  without  any  wind, 
The  cloudless  sky  at  break  of  early  day 
28 


DANTE 


DANTE:   LIFE  AND  MINOR  WORKS 

The  crystal  stream,  with  flowers  the  meadow  lined, 
Silver,  and  gold,  and  azure  for  array ; 

To  him  that  seea  the  beauty  and  the  worth 
Whose  power  doth  meet  and  in  my  lady  dwell, 
All  seem  as  vile,  their  price  and  lustre  gone. 

And,  as  the  heaven  is  higher  than  the  earth, 
So  she  in  knowledge  doth  each  one  excel, 
Not  slow  to  good  in  nature  like  her  own. 

It  is  with  Dante  alone,  however,  that  we  can 
busy  ourselves  here,  for  in  him  are  summed  up  all 
the  various  tendencies  and  characteristics  of  his 
predecessors  and  contemporaries. 

The  figure  of  Dante  Alighieri  is  one  of  the  sad- 
dest in  literary  history ;  his  life  seemed  to  contain 
all  the  sorrow  that  can  fall  to  the  lot  of  humankind. 
An  exile  from  his  native  city,  separated  from  family 
and  friends,  deprived  of  his  property,  and  thus 
forced  to  live  in  poverty  or  become  the  recipient  of 
charity,  disappointed  in  his  patriotic  hopes,  the 
only  thing  left  him  to  do  was  to  turn  his  eyes  in- 
ward and  to  build  up  out  of  his  very  sufferings  and 
sorrow,  his  immortal  poem :  — 

Ah  !  from  what  agony  of  heart  and  brain, 
What  exultations  trampling  on  despair, 

What  tenderness,  what  tears,  what  hate  of  wrong, 
What  passionate  outcry  of  a  soul  in  pain, 
Uprose  this  poem  of  the  earth  and  air,  — 
This  mediaeval  miracle  of  song. 
29 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

We  see,  then,  that  even  more  important  than  in 
the  case  of  other  poets  is  some  knowledge  of  the  life 
of  the  great  Florentine. 

Unfortunately  we  have  not  a  reliable  and  com- 
plete record  of  that  life.  Legend  and  fancy  have 
been  interwoven  with  facts  so  closely  that  often  it 
is  hard  to  separate  one  from  the  other.  The  follow- 
ing data,  however,  are  well-established.  Dante 
Alighieri  was  born  in  Florence  in  the  year  1265, 
the  day  and  month  being  uncertain,  but  probably 
falling  between  May  18th  and  June  17th.  He  be- 
longed to  a  family  which  was  counted  among  the 
lesser  nobility.  Dante  himself  does  not  seem  to 
have  been  able  to  trace  his  ancestry  further  back 
than  four  generations.  In  the  fifteenth  canto  of 
"  Paradise  "  there  is  a  famous  passage  where  the  poet 
tells  how  he  meets  in  Mars  his  great-great-grand- 
father, Cacciaguida,  who  gives  him  certain  auto- 
biographical details  :  that  he  was  baptized  at  the 
church  of  San  Giovanni  in  Florence  ;  that  he  had 
two  brothers  ;  that  his  wife  (from  whom  the  family 
drew  the  name  of  Alighieri)  came  from  the  Po 
Valley ;  that  he  had  gone  on  the  crusades  with  the 
Emperor  Conrad,  by  whom  he  had  been  dubbed 
knight ;  and  finally,  that  he  had  been  killed  by  the 
Arabs.  This  is  as  far  back  as  Dante  could  trace 
30 


DANTE:   LIFE   AND  MINOR  WORKS 

his  ancestry,  as  is  evident  from  the  words  of  Cac- 
ciaguida :  — 

My  ancestors  and  I  our  birthplace  had 

Where  first  is  found  the  last  ward  of  the  city 
By  him  who  runneth  in  your  annual  game.1 

Suffice  it  of  my  elders  to  hear  this  ; 

But  who  they  were,  and  whence  they  thither  came, 
Silence  is  more  considerate  than  speech. 

Of  Dante's  immediate  family  we  know  little,  for, 
strangely  enough  in  one  who  reveals  himself  so 
completely  in  his  poetry,  he  says  nothing  of  either 
father  or  mother.  As  to  his  education,  we  can  only 
infer  it  from  his  works  and  the  condition  of  the 
times.  The  statements  made  by  Boccaccio  and  Vil- 
lani  concerning  his  early  school  life  are  fables.  He 
did  not  go  to  school  under  Brunetto  Latini,  for  the 
latter  had  no  school ;  although  Dante  was  un- 
doubtedly influenced  by  Latini's  "  Tresor  "  (a  vast 
encyclopaedical  compilation  of  contemporary  know- 
ledge) which  laid  the  foundations  of  the  poet's 
learning.  Moreover,  it  may  well  be  that  the  dis- 
tinguished statesman,  judge,  and  writer  directed  by 
his  personal  counsel  the  studies  of  the  bright  young 
scholar,  for  whom  he  prophesied  a  brilliant  career. 

1  The  house  in  which  Cacciaguida  was  horn  stood  in  the  Mer- 
cato  Vecchio,  or  Old  Market,  at  the  beginning  of  the  last  ward  or 
sexto  of  Florence  toward  the  east,  called  the  Porta  Sao  Pietro. 
31 


Hence  Dante's  joy  and  gratitude  at  meeting  in  the 
"  Inferno  "  the  "  dear  paternal  image  of  him  who 
had  taught  him  how  man  becomes  eternal." 

It  is  certain  that  Dante  studied  the  regular  cur- 
riculum of  mediaeval  education,  the  so-called  seven 
liberal  arts,  consisting  of  the  Quadrivium  and  the 
Trivium.1  He  knew  Latin,  but  no  Greek  —  he 
quotes  frequently  Vergil,  Horace,  Statius,  and 
others.  He  was  a  profound  student  of  philosophy 
and  theology ;  loved  art,  music,  and  poetry.  In  the 
"  Divine  Comedy  "  he  shows  a  wide  knowledge,  em- 
bracing practically  all  the  science  and  learning  of 
the  times.  All  this  he  largely  taught  himself,  espe- 
cially in  his  early  life.  Later  he  visited  the  univer- 
sities of  Padua  and  Bologna,  and  probably  Paris. 
It  is  quite  unlikely,  however,  that  he  got  as  far  as 
Oxford,  as  Mr.  Gladstone  endeavored  to  prove  some 
years  ago.  He  was  not  unacquainted  with  military 
life,  having  been  present  at  the  battle  of  Carnpal- 
dino  and  at  the  surrender  of  Caprona. 

He  was  married  before  1298  to  Gemma  Donati, 
and  thus  became  related  to  one  of  the  most  power- 
ful families  in  Florence.  Here  again  he  shows  a 

1  The  Quadrivium  included  arithmetic,  geometry,  astronomy, 
and  music ;  the  Tri  viuiu,  grammar  (i.  e.,  Latin),  dialectics  and 
rhetoric. 

32 


DANTE:   LIFE   AND  MINOR  WORKS 

strange  reticence,  never  mentioning  his  wife  or  chil- 
dren. We  have  no  reason,  however,  to  believe  his 
marriage  unhappy,  or  that  he  lacked  affection  for 
his  children. 

It  is  true  that  his  wife  did  not  follow  him  in  ex- 
ile, but  there  was  reason  enough  for  this  in  his  pov- 
erty and  wandering  life.  The  apotheosis  of  Beatrice 
need  not  presuppose  lack  of  conjugal  affection,  for 
his  love  for  her  was  entirely  Platonic  and  became 
later  a  mere  symbol  of  the  spiritual  life.  He  had 
by  Gemma  several  children,  two  sons,  Pietro  and 
Jacopo,  and  one  daughter,  Beatrice  ;  that  he  had 
another  daughter,  named  Antonia,  is  probable,  but 
not  certain.  His  children  joined  him  later  in  life 
in  Ravenna. 

Of  the  greatest  importance  for  the  understanding 
of  the  "Divine  Comedy"  is  a  knowledge  of  the  politi- 
cal doctrines  and  of  the  public  life  of  Dante.  Tus- 
cany at  that  time  was  in  a  wild  and  stormy  condi- 
tion. It  shared  in  the  terrible  disorders  of  the 
struggle  between  the  Guelphs  and  Ghibellines  (the 
former  supporting  the  pope,  the  latter  the  em- 
peror). It  likewise  had  private  quarrels  of  its  own. 
The  old  feudal  nobility  had  been  repressed  by  the 
rise  of  the  cities,  into  which  the  nobles  themselves 
had  migrated,  and  where  they  kept  up  an  incessant 
33 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

series  of  quarrels  among  themselves  or  with  the  free 
citizens.  Yet,  in  spite  of  this  constant  state  of  war- 
fare, the  cities  of  Tuscany  increased  in  power  and 
prosperity,  especially  Florence.  We  need  only  re- 
member that  at  the  time  Dante  entered  public  life 
(1300)  an  extraordinary  activity  manifested  itself 
in  all  branches  of  public  works ;  new  streets, 
squares,  and  bridges  were  laid  out  and  built ;  the 
foundations  of  the  cathedral  had  been  laid,  and 
Santa  Croce  and  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  had  been  be- 
gun. Such  extensive  works  of  public  improvement 
presuppose  a  high  degree  of  prosperity  and  culture. 
The  political  condition  of  Florence  itself  at  this 
time  was  something  as  follows:  In  1265  (to  go 
back  a  few  years  in  order  to  get  the  proper  per- 
spective), Charles  of  Anjou,  brother  of  the  king  of 
France,  had  been  called  by  Pope  Urban  IV.  to  Italy 
to  aid  him  in  his  war  against  the  house  of  Swabia ; 
and  through  him  the  mighty  imperial  family  of  the 
Hohenstaufens,  which  had  counted  among  its  mem- 
bers Frederick  Barbarossa  and  Frederick  II.,  was 
destroyed.  Manfred,  the  natural  son  of  Frederick 
II.,  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Beneventum  (1266), 
and  his  nephew,  the  sixteen-year-old  Conradin,  the 
last  member  of  the  family,  was  betrayed  into  the 
hands  of  Charles  after  the  battle  of  Tagliacozza  and 
34 


DANTE:   LIFE   AND   MINOR  WORKS 

brutally  beheaded  in  the  public  square  of  Naples 
(1268).  It  was  through  Charles  of  Anjou  that  the 
Ghibellines,  who,  having  been  banished  from  Flor- 
ence in  1258,  had  returned  after  the  battle  of  Mon- 
taperti  in  1260,  were  once  more  driven  from  the 
city,  and  that  the  Guelphs,  that  is,  the  supporters 
of  the  pope,  were  restored  to  power. 

The  government  was  subject  to  frequent  changes, 
becoming,  however,  more  and  more  democratic  in 
character.  The  decree  of  Gian  della  Bella  had  de- 
clared all  nobles  ineligible  to  public  office,  and  had 
granted  the  right  to  govern  to  those  only  who  be- 
longed to  a  guild  or  who  exercised  a  profession.  It 
was  undoubtedly  to  render  himself  eligible  to  office 
that  Dante  joined  the  guild  of  physicians.  In  1300 
he  was  elected  one  of  the  six  priors  who  ruled  the 
city  for  a  period  of  two  months  only.  From  this 
brief  term  of  office  Dante  himself  dates  all  his  later 
misfortunes. 

At  this  time,  in  addition  to  the  two  great  parties 
of  Guelphs  and  Ghibellines,  which  existed  in  Flor- 
ence as  in  the  rest  of  Italy,  there  were  in  the  city 
two  minor  parties,  which  at  first  had  nothing  to  do 
with  papal  or  imperial  politics.  These  parties, 
known  as  Whites  and  Blacks,  came  from  Pistoia, 
over  which  Florence  exercised  a  sort  of  protector- 
35 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

ate.  The  rulers  of  the  latter  city  tried  to  smooth 
out  the  quarrels  of  the  above  local  factions  of  Pis- 
toia,  by  taking  the  chiefs  of  both  parties  to  them- 
selves ;  but  the  quarrels  continued  in  Florence, 
and  soon  the  whole  city  was  drawn  into  the  contest, 
the  Blacks  being  led  by  Corso  Donati,  and  the 
Whites  by  the  family  of  the  Cerchi. 

Pope  Boniface  VIII.,  who  claimed  Tuscany  as 
the  heir  of  the  Countess  Matilda,  endeavored  to 
take  advantage  of  the  state  of  discord  in  order  to 
further  his  own  selfish  plans.  For  this  purpose  he 
sent  the  Cardinal  Acquasparta  to  Florence,  who, 
failing  to  accomplish  his  mission,  excommunicated 
the  recalcitrant  city  and  left  it  in  a  rage.  At  this 
juncture  the  Priors,  of  whom,  as  we  have  seen, 
Dante  was  one,  thought  to  still  the  discord  by  ban- 
ishing the  leaders  of  the  Whites  and  Blacks, — 
an  act,  however,  which  only  served  to  bring  the 
hatred  of  both  parties  on  the  heads  of  the  magis- 
trates. 

In  1301  Charles  of  Valois  was  called  to  Florence, 
ostensibly  to  pacify  the  divided  city ;  he  favored 
the  party  of  the  Blacks,  however,  and  let  in  Corso 
Donati,  who  had  been  exiled  the  year  before,  and 
for  five  days  murder,  fire,  and  rapine  raged  through 
the  streets  of  the  devoted  city.  All  the  Whites  who 
36 


DANTE:   LIFE   AND   MINOR  WORKS 

were  not  slain  were  exiled  and  their  property  con- 
fiscated or  destroyed.  Among  the  exiled  was  Dante. 
There  are  several  decrees  against  him  still  extant 
in  the  archives  of  Florence.  The  first  is  dated  Jan- 
uary 27,  1302,  and  accuses  him,  with  several  others, 
of  extortion,  bribery,  defalcation  of  public  money, 
and  hostility  to  the  Pope  and  the  church.  We  need 
not  say  that  of  all  these  accusations  the  latter  alone 
was  true.  In  case  the  accused  did  not  appear  be- 
fore the  court  to  answer  the  charges,  they  were  con- 
demned, in  contumacy,  to  pay  a  fine  of  five  hundred 
gold  florins  ;  if  this  was  not  paid  within  three  days, 
their  property  should  be  confiscated.  This  decree 
was  followed  by  another,  on  March  10,  1302,  in 
which  the  same  charges  were  repeated,  and  in  which 
Dante,  as  a  delinquent,  was  declared  an  outlaw,  and 
condemned  to  be  burned  alive  if  ever  caught  within 
Florentine  territory. 

Thus  begins  the  poignant  story  of  Dante's  exile. 
We  know  but  few  definite  details  of  that  long 
period  of  wandering.  He  himself  says,  in  his 
"  Banquet,"  that  he  traveled  all  over  Italy,  "  a 
pilgrim,  almost  a  beggar." 

In  the  seventeenth  Canto  of  "  Paradise,"  already 
mentioned,  Cacciaguida  gives  a  brief  summary  of 
Dante's  exile  in  the  form  of  a  prophecy :  — 
37 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

As  forth  from  Athens  went  Ilippolytus, 

By  reason  of  his  step-dame  false  and  cruel, 
So  thou  from  Florence  must  perforce  depart. 

Already  this  is  willed,  and  this  is  sought  for ; 

And  soon  it  shall  be  done  by  him  who  thinks  it,1 
Where  every  day  the  Christ  is  bought  and  sold. 

The  blame  shall  follow  the  offended  party 
In  outcry  as  is  usual ;  but  the  vengeance 
Shall  witness  to  the  truth  that  doth  dispense  it. 

Thou  shalt  abandon  everything  beloved 
Most  tenderly,  and  this  the  arrow  is 
Which  first  the  bow  of  banishment  shoots  forth. 

Thou  shalt  have  proof  how  savoureth  of  salt 
The  bread  of  others,  and  how  hard  a  road 
The  going  down  and  up  another's  stairs. 

And  that  which  most  shall  weigh  upon  thy  shoulders 
Will  be  the  bad  and  foolish  company 
With  which  into  this  valley  thon  shalt  fall ; 

For  all  ing-rate,  all  mad  and  impious 

Will  they  become  against  thee  ;  but  soon  after 
They,  and  not  thou,  shall  have  the  forehead  scarlet. 

Of  their  bestiality,  their  own  proceedings 

Shall  furnish  proof  :  so  't  will  be  well  for  thee 
A  party  to  have  made  thee  by  thyself. 

Thine  earliest  refuge  and  thine  earliest  inn 
Shall  be  the  mighty  Lombard's  courtesy, 
Who  on  the  Ladder  bears  the  holy  bird, 

Who  such  benign  regard  shall  have  for  thee 

That  'twixt  you  twain,  in  doing  and  in  asking, 
That  shall  be  first  which  is  with  others  last. 

1  Pope  Boniface  VIII.  in  Home. 


38 


DANTE:  LIFE  AND  MINOR  WORKS 

We  see  from  these  lines  that  Dante  first  went  to 
Verona,  the  seat  of  Bartolommeo  della  Scala  (the 
*'  great  Lombard,"  whose  coat  of  arms  was  a  ladder 
("  scala  ")  with  an  eagle  perched  upon  it.  From 
there  he  went  to  Bologna,  thence  to  Padua,  and 
thence  to  the  Lunigiana.  It  is  about  this  time  that 
he  is  said  to  have  gone  to  Paris  (this  is  probable), 
and  to  Germany,  Flanders,  and  England  ;  it  is  not 
at  all  probable  that  he  ever  saw  the  last-mentioned 
place. 

Dante  never  gave  up  altogether  the  hope  that  he 
might  one  day  return  to  Florence.  He  yearned  all 
his  life  for  the  "beautiful  sheep-fold"  where  he 
had  lived  as  a  lamb.  Yet  even  this  happiness  he 
would  not  accept  at  the  price  of  dishonor.  When, 
in  1312,  a  general  amnesty  was  proclaimed  by 
Florence,  and  he  might  have  returned  if  he  would 
consent  to  certain  humiliating  conditions,  he  wrote 
the  following  noble  words  to  a  friend  in  Florence :  — 

Tins  is  not  the  way  of  coming1  home,  my  father !  Yet,  if  you 
or  other  find  one  not  beneath  the  fame  of  Dante  and  his  honor, 
that  will  I  gladly  pursue.  But  if  by  no  such  way  can  I  enter 
Florence,  then  Florence  shall  I  never  enter.  And  what  then ! 
Can  I  not  behold  the  sun  and  the  stars  from  every  spot  of  earth  ? 
Shall  I  not  be  able  to  meditate  on  the  sweetest  truths  in  every 
place  beneath  the  sky,  unless  I  make  myself  ignoble,  yea,  igno- 
minious to  the  people  and  state  of  Florence  ?  Nor  shall  bread  be 
wanting. 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

A  great  hope  rose  above  the  horizon  of  his  life 
when  Henry  VII. ,  of  Luxemburg,  came  to  Italy  to 
restore  the  ancient  power  of  the  empire.  Dante's 
letters  written  at  this  time  are  couched  in  exult- 
ant, almost  extravagant,  language :  "  Rejoice,  O 
Italy,"  he  cried,  "  for  thy  bridegroom,  the  comfort 
of  the  world,  and  the  glory  of  the  people,  the  most 
merciful  Henry,  the  divine  Augustus  and  Caesar  is 
hastening  hither  to  the  wedding  feast."  His  joy 
and  exultation,  alas!  were  doomed  to  a  speedy 
end. 

In  1312  Henry,  who,  after  the  murder  of  Albert, 
had  been  crowned  emperor  (in  1309),  came  to  Pisa, 
thence  to  Rome.  Then,  after  having  in  vain  be- 
sieged Florence,  which  had  become  the  leader  of  the 
anti-imperial  movement,  he  retired  to  Buoncon- 
vento,  where  he  died  (probably  from  poison)  Au- 
gust 24,  1313. 

With  the  tragic  death  of  Henry,  Dante  seems  to 
have  given  up  all  hope  of  earthly  happiness  and 
from  now  on  turned  his  eyes  to  heaven,  from  which 
alone  he  could  hope  for  justice  to  himself  and  peace 
and  righteousness  for  unhappy  Italy.  The  composi- 
tion of  the  "  Divine  Comedy  "  dates  from  this  period. 
His  final  refuge  and  place  of  rest  was  at  Ravenna, 
at  the  court  of  Guido  da  Polenta,  uncle  of  Fran- 

40 


DANTE:   LIFE   AND   MINOR   WORKS 

cesca  da  Rimini,  whose  pathetic  story  is  quoted  in 
the  next  chapter.  Here,  in  comparative  comfort 
and  peace,  he  spent  the  evening  of  his  life,  occupy- 
ing his  time  in  writing  the  "  Divine  Comedy  "  and  in 
occasional  journeys,  in  the  interest  of  his  patron. 
In  1321,  while  on  one  of  these  journeys  to  Venice, 
he  caught  fever  and  died  on  the  13th  of  September 
of  that  year. 

Many  anecdotes  and  legends  are  told  of  these 
years  of  exile.  Thus  it  is  said  that  while  in  Ve- 
rona, as  he  was  walking  one  day  through  the  streets, 
some  women  saw  him  and  said :  "  Behold,  there  is 
the  man  who  has  been  in  hell."  A  beautiful  story 
is  told  in  a  letter,  doubtful,  however,  written  by 
Fra  Ilario  of  the  Monastery  of  Santa  Croce  on 
Monte  Corvo,  to  the  effect  that  one  day  a  dust- 
stained,  travel-worn  man,  carrying  a  roll  of  manu- 
script under  his  arm,  knocked  at  the  door  of  the 
monastery,  and  on  being  asked  what  he  wanted, 
answered  "pace,  pace"  (peace,  peace).  This  le- 
gend has  been  beautifully  rendered  by  Longfellow 
in  the  following  lines :  — 

Methinks  I  see  thee  stand  with  pallid  cheeks 

By  Fra  Ilario  in  his  diocese, 
As  on  the  convent  walls  in  golden  streaks 

The  ascending  sunbeams  mark  the  day's  decrease. 
41 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

And  as  he  asks  what  there  the  stranger  seeks 
Thy  voice  along  the  cloisters  whispers  "  peace." 

Dante's  character  reveals  itself  in  all  its  phases 
in  his  works.  His  youth  as  represented  in  the  "  New 
Life  "  was  a  happy  one,  filled  with  ardor  for  study, 
with  affection  for  friends,  and  with  the  ecstasy  of 
a  pure  and  virtuous  love.  He  needed,  however,  the 
death  of  Beatrice,  the  long  years  of  exile,  and 
the  disappointment  of  all  his  hopes  to  develop 
that  strong  and  noble  character  which  the  world  ad- 
mires almost  as  much  as  his  poetry.  He  was  an 
enthusiastic  student,  yet  mingled  with  the  affairs 
of  men ;  never  willingly  doing  wrong  himself,  he 
was  unyielding  in  what  he  conceived  to  be  right, 
and  consecrated  his  consummate  powers  to  the 
cause  of  the  noble  and  the  good.  His  own  con- 
science was  clear,  and  under  this  "  breastplate,"  as 
he  called  it,  he  went  steadily  on  his  way.  He  was 
proud  of  his  learning,  strong  in  his  opinions,  and 
does  not  hesitate  to  constitute  himself  the  stern 
judge  of  all  his  contemporaries ;  this  in  a  lesser 
man  would  have  seemed  presumptuous ;  in  Dante 
it  was  only  the  prosecution  of  a  solemn  and,  as 
he  thought,  a  God-given  duty.  Yet  in  spite  of 
this  sternness  his  heart  was  soft  and  tender.  Like 
Tennyson's  poet,  Dante  was  "  dowered  with  love  of 

42 


DANTE:   LIFE   AND  MINOR  WORKS 

love,"  as  well  as  with  "  hate  of  hate  and  scorn  of 
scorn." 

Those  who  read  only  the  "  Inferno  "  may  get  the 
impression  of  a  savage,  revengeful  spirit;  but  the 
"  Purgatorio  "  and  "  Paradiso  "  are  full  of  tender- 
est  poetry,  of  sublimest  imagination,  and  show  their 
author  to  have  had  a  heart  full  of  love  and  gentleness, 
sweetness  and  light.  A  deep  melancholy  weighed 
over  the  whole  later  life  of  Dante  ;  his  heart  never 
ceased  to  long  for  home  and  friends.  Yet  this  mel- 
ancholy is  not  pessimism ;  he  never  lost  his  confi- 
dence in  God,  never  doubted  right  would  win. 

It  is  this  inspiring  combination  of  noble  quali- 
ties in  Dante's  character,  reflected  on  every  page 
of  the  "  Divine  Comedy,"which  makes  the  study  of 
the  latter  not  merely  an  aesthetic  pleasure,  but  a 
spiritual  exercise,  ennobling  and  uplifting  the  minds 
of  those  who  read  it  with  the  "  spirit  and  with  the 
understanding  also." 

The  works  of  Dante  are  not  many.  They  con- 
sist of  prose  and  poetry,  the  former  comprising  the 
so-called  "  Banquet  "  (Convivio)  and  the  essay  on 
"Universal  Monarchy"  (De  Monarchia).  The 
"  Banquet "  was  to  have  been  finished  in  fifteen 
books  or  chapters,  but  is  only  a  fragment  of  four. 
It  is  a  sort  of  encyclopaedia  of  knowledge,  such  as 
43 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

were  so  popular  in  the  Middle  Ages,  but  written  in 
Italian,  in  order  to  bring  it  within  the  reach  of  the 
unlearned  reader.  It  is  full  of  the  scholastic  learn- 
ing of  the  times,  and  while  not  attractive  to  the  or- 
dinary reader,  is  of  great  importance  for  a  complete 
understanding  of  the  "  Divine  Comedy."  Likewise 
important  in  this  respect  is  the  political  treatise 
on  the  "  Monarchy,"  in  which  Dante  sums  up  his 
theory  of  world-politics.  This  book,  written  in 
Latin,  is  divided  into  three  parts  :  in  Book  I.,  the 
author  shows  the  necessity  of  a  universal  empire ; 
in  Book  II.,  he  shows  the  right  of  Rome  to  be  the 
seat  of  this  empire  ;  in  Book  III.,  he  shows  the  in- 
dependence of  the  emperor  in  his  relations  to  the 
pope.  This  theory  of  the  separation  of  the  church 
and  state  runs  like  a  thread  through  the  whole  of 
the  "  Divine  Comedy,"  in  which  Dante  constantly 
attributes  the  sufferings  of  Italy  to  the  lust  for  tem- 
poral power  on  the  part  of  the  Pope  and  clergy. 

For  the  general  reader,  however,  the  most  inter- 
esting of  Dante's  writings,  after  the  "  Divine  Com- 
edy," is  the  "  New  Life,"  a  strange  and  beautiful 
little  book  which  serves  as  a  prologue  to  the  "  Di- 
vine Comedy."  It  is  the  story  of  Dante's  love  for 
Beatrice  Portinari,  the  daughter  of  Folco,  a  neigh- 
bor and  friend  of  the  poet's  father.  It  is  a  simple 
44 


DANTE:   LIFE  AND  MINOR  WORKS 

story,  containing  but  few  actual  events,  the  details 
consisting  for  the  most  part  of  repetitions  of  the 
theory  of  love  propounded  by  Guido  Guinicelli,  of 
analyses  of  Dante's  own  state  of  mind,  and  of  mys- 
tical visions.  The  form  of  the  book  is  peculiar,  part 
prose,  part  poetry,  the  latter  being  accompanied  by 
a  brief  commentary.  Yet  there  is  a  truth  and  sin- 
cerity in  the  book  which  proves  that  it  is  no  mere 
allegory  or  symbol,  but  the  record  of  an  actual  love 
on  the  part  of  Dante  for  the  fair  young  Florentine 
girl  who  is  its  heroine. 

Dante  tells  us  in  quaint  and  scholastic  language 
how  he  first  saw  Beatrice  at  a  May  festival,  when 
she  was  at  the  beginning  of  her  ninth  year  and  he 
was  at  the  end  of  his.  She  was  dressed  in  red,  with 
ornaments  suited  to  her  youthful  age,  and  was  so 
beautiful  "  that  surely  one  could  say  of  her  the 
words  of  the  poet,  Homer :  '  She  seemed  not  the 
daughter  of  mortal  man  but  of  God.'  "  He  tells  us, 
further,  how  he  felt  the  spirit  of  love  awaken  within 
him  and  how,  after  that  first  meeting,  he  sought 
every  opportunity  of  seeing  her  again. 

Nine  years  later,  again  in  May,  he  records  another 
occasion  when  he  met  Beatrice;  this  time  dressed  in 
white  and  accompanied  by  two  ladies,  "  and  pass- 
ing along  the  street  she  turned  her  eyes  toward  the 
45 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

place  where  I  stood,  very  timid,  and  through  her 
ineffable  courtesy  she  gently  saluted  me,  so  that  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  experienced  all  the  depths  of 
bliss.  The  hour  was  precisely  the  ninth  of  that  day, 
and  inasmuch  as  it  was  the  first  time  that  her  words 
reached  my  ears,  such  sweetness  came  upon  me 
that,  intoxicated,  as  it  were,  with  joy,  I  left  the 
people  and  went  to  my  solitary  chamber,  and  began 
to  muse  upon  this  most  courteous  lady."  This  love, 
accompanied  as  it  was  with  violent  alternations  of 
joy  and  sorrow,  produced  a  strong  effect  on  Dante  ; 
his  health  suffered,  his  nerves  were  shattered,  and 
he  became  frail  and  weak.  Yet  he  refused  to  tell  her 
name,  although  he  confessed  that  love  was  the  cause 
of  his  sufferings.  "  And  when  they  ask  me  by 
means  of  whom  love  brought  me  to  this  wretched 
state,  I  looked  at  them  with  a  smile,  but  said 
nothing." 

In  order,  however,  to  put  people  on  the  wrong 
track,  he  pretended  to  love  another  lady,  and  so 
successful  was  this  subterfuge,  that  even  Beatrice 
herself  was  deceived  by  it,  so  that  one  day,  meeting 
Dante,  she  refused  to  salute  him,  an  act  which 
filled  him  with  deepest  affliction.  "  Now  after  my 
happiness  was  denied  me,  there  came  upon  me  so 
much  grief  that  leaving  all  people  I  went  my  way 
46 


DANTE:   LIFE  AND  MINOR  WORKS 

to  a  solitary  place  to  bathe  the  earth  with  bitter- 
est tears ;  and  when  I  was  somewhat  relieved  by 
this  weeping,  I  entered  my  chamber  where  1  could 
lament  without  being  heard,  and  there  I  began  to 
call  on  my  lady  for  mercy,  and  saying :  *  Love,  help 
thy  faithful  one,'  I  fell  asleep  in  tears  like  a  little, 
beaten  child." 

As  we  have  already  said,  there  is  little  action  in 
this  book,  only  a  few  meetings  in  the  street,  in 
church,  or  at  funerals  ;  even  the  death  of  Beatrice's 
father  is  spoken  of  vaguely  and  allusively.  The 
importance  of  all  lies  in  the  psychological  analysis 
of  feelings  and  thoughts  of  the  poet.  The  descrip- 
tions of  Beatrice  are  vague,  and  her  figure  is 
wrapped  in  an  atmosphere  of  "  vaporous  twilight." 
Her  beauty  is  not  presented  to  us  by  means  of  word- 
painting,  but  rather  by  its  effect  on  all  who  beheld 
her.  This  is  illustrated  in  the  following  sonnet, 
which  is  justly  considered  the  most  beautiful  not 
only  of  Dante's  poetry  but  of  all  Italian  litera- 
ture :  — 

So  gentle  and  so  noble  doth  appear 

My  lady  -when  she  passes  through  the  street, 
That  none  her  salutation  dare  repeat 

And  all  eyes  turn  from  her  as  if  in  fear. 

She  goes  her  way,  and  cannot  help  hut  hear 
The  praise  of  all,  —  yet  modest  still  and  sweet ; 
47 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Something  she  seems  come  down  from  heaven,  —  her  seat, 
To  earth  a  miracle  to  show  men  here. 
So  pleasing  doth  she  seem  nnto  the  eye, 

That  to  the  heart  a  sweetness  seems  to  move, 
A  sweetness  only  known  to  those  who  feel ; 
And  from  her  lips  a  spirit  seems  to  steal,  — 

A  gentle  spirit  soft  and  full  of  love,  — 
That  whispers  to  the  souls  of  all  men,  —  "  sigh." 

The  effect  of  all  these  conflicting  sentiments 
which  agitated  Dante's  bosom  was  to  throw  him 
into  a  serious  illness,  in  the  course  of  which  he  had 
a  terrible  vision  of  the  approaching  death  of  Bea- 
trice. "  Now  a  few  days  after  this,  it  happened  that 
there  came  upon  me  a  dolorous  infirmity,  whence 
for  nine  days  I  suffered  most  bitter  pain  ;  this  led 
me  to  such  weakness  that  I  was  not  able  to  move 
from  my  bed.  I  say,  then,'  that  on  the  ninth  day, 
feeling  my  pain  almost  intolerable,  there  came  to 
me  a  thought  concerning  my  lady.  And  when  I  had 
thought  somewhat  of  her,  and  turned  again  in 
thought  to  my  own  weakened  life,  and  considered 
how  fragile  is  its  duration,  even  though  it  be  in 
health,  I  began  to  weep  to  myself  over  so  much 
misery.  Whence  I  said  to  myself  with  sighs :  verily 
the  most  gentle  Beatrice  must  sometime  die. 
Wherefore  there  came  upon  me  so  great  a  depres- 
sion that  I  closed  my  eyes  and  began  to  wander  in 
48 


DANTE:   LIFE  AND  MINOR   WORKS 

mind,  so  that  there  appeared  to  me  certain  faces  of 
ladies  with  disheveled  hair,  who  said  to  me,  *  Thou 
also  shalt  die.'  And  after  these  ladies  certain  other 
faces,  horribly  distorted,  appeared  and  said  :  '  Thou 
art  dead.'  Then  I  seemed  to  see  ladies  with  dishev- 
eled hair  going  along  the  street  weeping,  and  won- 
drous sad  ;  and  the  sun  grew  dark,  so  that  the 
stars  showed  themselves,  of  such  color  that  me- 
thought  they  wept ;  and  the  birds  as  they  flew  fell 
dead ;  and  there  were  mighty  earthquakes ;  and 
as  I  wondered  and  was  smitten  with  terror  in  such 
fancies,  methought  I  saw  a  friend  come  to  me  and 
say :  '  Dost  thou  not  know  ?  Thy  peerless  lady  has 
departed  this  life.'  Then  I  began  to  weep  very  pit- 
eously,  and  not  only  in  dream,  but  bathing  my 
cheeks  in  real  tears.  And  I  dreamed  that  I  looked 
skyward  and  saw  a  multitude  of  angels  flying  up- 
wards, and  they  had  before  them  a  small  cloud, 
exceedingly  white.1  And  the  angels  seemed  to  be 
singing  gloriously,  and  the  words  which  I  seemed 
to  hear  were  these  :  '  Hosanna  in  the  Highest,'  and 
naught  else  could  I  hear.  Then  it  seemed  to  me 
that  my  heart,  which  was  so  full  of  love,  said  to 
me  :  '  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  our  lady  lies  dead.' 
And  so  strong  was  my  wandering  fancy  that  it 

1  The  soul  of  Beatrice. 
49 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

showed  me  this  lady  dead;  and  I  seemed  to  see 
ladies  covering  her  head  with  a  very  white  veil,  and 
her  face  had  so  great  an  aspect  of  humility  that 
she  seemed  to  say  :  *  I  have  gone  to  behold  the  be- 
ginning of  peace.'  And  then  I  seemed  to  have  re- 
turned to  my  own  room,  and  there  I  looked  toward 
heaven  and  began  to  cry  out  in  tears:  'O,  soul 
most  beautiful,  how  blessed  is  he  who  beholds  thee.' 
And  as  I  said  these  words  with  sobs  and  tears,  and 
called  on  death  to  come  to  me,  a  young  and  gentle 
lady  who  was  at  my  bedside,  thinking  that  my  tears 
and  cries  were  for  grief  on  account  of  my  infirmity 
began  also  to  weep  in  great  fear.  Whereupon 
other  ladies  who  were  in  the  room,  noticed  that  I 
wept,  and  leading  away  from  my  bedside  her  who 
was  joined  to  me  by  close  ties  of  blood,1  they  came 
to  me  to  wake  me  from  my  dream,  and  saying: 
4  Weep  no  more,'  and  again :  '  Be  not  so  discom- 
forted.' And  as  they  thus  spoke,  my  strong  fancy 
ceased,  and  just  as  I  was  about  to  say :  '  O,  Bea- 
trice, blessed  art  thou,'  and  I  had  already  said,  *  O 
Beatrice  —  '  giving  a  start  I  opened  my  eyes  and 
saw  that  I  had  been  dreaming." 

The  presentiment  of  Dante  in  the  above  exqui- 
site passage  came  true.    Beatrice,  too  fair  and  good 

1  Dante's  sister. 
50 


DANTE:   LIFE   AND  MINOK  WORKS 

for  earth,  was  called  by  God  to  himself.  One  day 
the  poet  sat  down  to  write  a  poem  in  praise  of  her, 
and  had  finished  one  stanza  when  the  news  came 
that  Beatrice  was  dead.  At  first  he  seemed  too  be- 
numbed even  for  tears,  and  after  a  quotation  from 
Jeremiah  — "  How  doth  the  city  sit  solitary  that 
was  full  of  people  !  How  is  she  become  a  widow ! 
she  that  was  great  among  the  nations,"  he  gives  a 
fantastic  discussion  of  the  symbolical  figure  nine 
and  its  connection  with  the  life  and  death  of  Bea- 
trice. Then  the  tears  began  to  flow,  and  unutter- 
able sadness  took  possession  of  his  heart.  A  whole 
year  after  he  tells  us  how  one  day  he  sat  thinking 
of  her  and  drawing  the  picture  of  an  angel,  a  pic- 
ture, alas !  which  was  never  finished  as  he  was  in- 
terrupted by  visitors.1  At  another  time  he  tells 
how  one  day  he  saw  a  number  of  pilgrims  passing 
through  Florence  on  their  way  to  Rome,  and  to 
them  he  addressed  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his 
sonnets :  — 

Oh,  pilgrims  who  move  on  with  steps  so  slow, 
Musing  perchance  of  friends  now  far  away  ; 

1  Yon  and  I  would  rather  see  that  angel, 
Painted  by  the  tenderness  of  Dante, 
Would  we  not  ?  than  read  a  fresh  "  Inferno." 

BBOWMING  (One  Word  More). 
51 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

So  distant  is  your  native  land,  oh  say  ! 
As  by  your  actions  ye  do  seem  to  show  ? 
For  lo !  you  weep  and  mourn  not  when  you  go, 

Through  these  our  city  streets,  so  sad  to-day ; 

Nor  unto  us  your  meed  of  pity  pay, 
Bowed  as  we  are  'neath  heavy  weight  of  woe. 

If  while  I  speak  you  will  but  wait  and  hear,  — 
Surely,  —  my  heart  in  sighing  whispers  me,  — • 
That  then  you  shall  go  on  with  sorrow  deep. 
Florence  has  lost  its  Beatrice  dear ; 
And  words  that  tell  what  she  was  wont  to  be, 
Are  potent  to  make  all  that  hear  them  weep. 

With  these  lines  the  "  New  Life  "  practically 
ends.  After  one  more  sonnet,  in  which  he  tells  how 
he  was  lifted  in  spirit  and  had  a  vision  of  Beatrice 
in  Paradise,  he  concludes  the  book  with  the  follow- 
ing paragraph,  in  which  we  first  see  a  definite  pur- 
pose on  the  part  of  Dante  to  write  a  long  poem  in 
praise  of  Beatrice :  "  After  this  sonnet  there  ap- 
peared to  me  a  wonderful  vision,  in  which  I  saw 
things  which  made  me  resolve  to  say  no  more  of 
this  blessed  one  until  I  should  be  able  to  treat  more 
worthily  of  her,  and  to  come  to  that  I  study  as 
much  as  I  can,  as  she  truly  knows.  So  that  if  it 
shall  be  the  pleasure  of  Him  in  whom  all  things 
live  that  my  life  endure  for  some  years  more,  I  hope 
to  say  of  her  that  which  has  never  yet  been  said  of 
mortal  woman.  And  then  may  it  please  Him  who 
52 


DANTE:   LIFE  AND  MINOR  WORKS 

is  Lord  of  Courtesy,  that  my  soul  may  go  to  see 
the  glory  of  its  lady,  that  is,  the  blessed  Beatrice 
who  gloriously  looks  on  the  face  of  Him  *  qui  est  per 
cuncta  saecula  benedictus  in  saecula  saeculorum.' " 
(Who  is  blessed  throughout  all  the  ages.) 


Ill 

THE   DIVIDE   COMEDY 


W, 


E  have  seen,  at  the  end  of  the  last  chapter, 
how  Dante  had  made  a  vow  to  glorify  Beatrice,  as 
no  other  woman  had  ever  been  glorified,  and  how 
he  studied  and  labored  to  prepare  himself  for  the 
lofty  task.  The  "  Divine  Comedy  "  is  the  fulfill- 
ment of  this  "  immense  promise."  Although  it  is 
probable  that  Dante  did  not  begin  to  write  this 
poem  tiU  after  the  death  of  Henry  VII.  (1313), 
yet  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  was  slowly  de- 
veloping in  his  mind  during  all  the  years  of  his 
exile. 

The  "  Divine  Comedy  "  is  divided  into  three  parts 
or  books,  canticas,  as  they  are  called  by  Dante : 
"  Inferno,"  "  Purgatorio,"  and  "  Paradiso,"  each 
one  containing  thirty-three  cantos,  with  one  addi- 
tional introductory  canto  prefixed  to  the  "  Inferno." 
J£ven  the  number  of  lines  in  the  three  canticas  is 
approximately  the  same.1  Dante's  love  for  number 

1  Inferno,  4720 ;  Purgatorio,  4755 ;  Paradiso,  4758. 
54 


THE  DIVINE  COMEDY 

symbols  was  shown  in  the  "New  Life,"  hence 
we  are  justified  in  accepting  the  theory  that  the 
threefold  division  of  the  poem  is  symbolical  of 
the  Trinity,  and  that  the  thirty-three  cantos  of 
each  cantica  represent  the  years  of  the  Saviour's 
life.  It  is  worthy  of  note  that  the  last  word  in 
each  of  the  three  books  is  "  stars." 

The  allegory  of  the  "  Divine  Comedy  "  has  been 
the  subject  of  countless  discussions.  The  consensus 
of  the  best  modern  commentators  seems  to  be,  how- 
ever, that  although  the  allegory  is  more  or  less 
political,  it  is  chiefly  religious.  The  great  theme  is 
the  salvation  of  the  human  soul,  represented  by 
Dante  himself,  who  is  the  protagonist  of  the  poem. 
As  he  wanders  first  through  Hell,  he  sees  in  all  its 
loathly  horrors  the  "  exceeding  sinfulness  of  sin," 
and  realizes  its  inevitable  punishment ;  as  he  climbs 
the  steep  slopes  of  Purgatory,  at  first  with  infinite 
difficulty,  but  with  ever-increasing  ease  as  he  ap- 
proaches the  summit,  he  learns  by  his  own  experi- 
ence how  hard  it  is  to  root  out  the  natural  tendencies 
to  sin  that  pull  the  soul  downward  ;  and  finally,  as 
he  mounts  from  heaven  to  heaven,  till  he  arrives 
in  the  very  presence  of  God  himself,  he  experiences 
the  joy  unspeakable  that  comes  to  him  who,  having 
purged  himself  of  sin,  is  found  worthy  to  join  "  the 
55 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

innumerable  company  of  saints  and  the  spirits  of 
just  men  made  perfect." 

The  "  Divine  Comedy "  is  a  visionary  journey 
through  the  three  supernatural  worlds,  Hell,  Pur- 
gatory, and  Paradise.  Such  visions  were  by  no 
means  infrequent  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  Dante 
had  many  predecessors.  He  simply  adopted  a 
poetical  device  well  known  to  his  contemporaries. 
What  differentiated  him  from  others  is  the  dra- 
matic and  intensely  personal  character  of  his  vision ; 
the  consummate  skill  with  which  he  interwove  into 
this  one  poem  all  the  science,  learning,  philosophy, 
and  history  of  the  times ;  and  the  lovely  poetry  in 
which  all  these  things  are  embalmed.  To  appreciate 
the  vast  difference  between  the  "  Divine  Comedy  " 
and  previous  works  of  a  similar  nature,  we  need  only 
to  read  a  few  pages  of  such  crude  books  as  the 
Visions  of  "Alberico,"  "Tugdale"  and  "Saint 
Brandon." 

To  Dante  and  his  contemporaries  the  super- 
natural world  was  not  what  it  is  to  us  to-day,  a 
vast,  unbounded  space  filled  with  star-systems  like 
our  own ;  the  topography  of  Hell,  Purgatory, 
and  Paradise  seemed  to  them  as  definite  as  that 
of  our  own  planet.  The  Ptolemaic  system  of  as- 
tronomy (overthrown  by  Copernicus,  yet  still  form- 
56 


THE   DIVINE  COMEDY 

ing  the  framework  of  Milton's  "  Paradise  Lost  ") 
was  accepted  with  implicit  confidence.  Accord- 
ing to  this  system  the  universe  consisted  of  ten 
heavens  or  concentric  spheres,  in  the  centre  of 
which  was  our  earth,  immovable  itself,  while  around 
it  revolved  the  heavenly  spheres.  The  earth  was 
surrounded  by  an  atmosphere  of  air,  then  one  of 
fire,  and  then  came  in  order  the  heavens  of  the 
moon,  Mercury,  Venus,  the  sun  ;  Mars,  Jupiter, 
Saturn,  the  fixed  stars,  and  the  Primum  Mobile 
(the  source  of  the  motion  of  the  spheres)  beyond 
which  stretched  out  to  infinity  the  Empyrean,  the 
heaven  of  light  and  love,  the  seat  of  God  and 
the  angels. 

According  to  Dante,  Hell  is  situated  in  the  in- 
terior of  the  earth,  being  in  shape  a  sort  of  funnel 
with  the  point  downward,  and  reaching  to  the  cen- 
tre of  the  earth,  which  is  also  the  centre  of  the  uni- 
verse. Purgatory  rises  in  the  form  of  a  truncated 
cone  on  the  surface  of  the  southern  hemisphere, 
having,  in  solid  form,  the  same  shape  as  the  hollow 
funnel  of  Hell.  It  was  formed  of  the  earth  which 
fled  before  Lucifer,  and  splashed  up  behind  him 
like  water,  when,  after  his  revolt  against  the  Al- 
mighty he  was  flung  headlong  from  heaven  and 
became  fixed  in  the  centre  of  the  earth,  as  far  as 
57 


THE  GREAT   POETS   OF  ITALY 

possible,  according  to  the  Ptolemaic  system,  from 
the  Empyrean  and  from  God. 

Hell  is  formed  of  nine  concentric,  ever-narrow- 
ing terraces,  or  circles,  exhibiting  a  great  variety 
of  landscapes,  rivers,  and  lakes,  gloomy  forests  and 
sandy  deserts,  all  shrouded  in  utter  darkness  except 
where  flickering  flames  tear  the  thick  pall  of  night 
or  the  red-hot  walls  of  Dis  gleam  balefully  over 
the  waters  of  the  Stygian  marsh.  Here  are  pun- 
ished the  various  groups  of  sinners,  whom  Dante 
sees,  whose  suffering  he  describes,  and  with  whom 
he  converses,  as  he  makes  his  way  downward  from 
circle  to  circle. 

It  was  in  the  year  1300,  at  Easter  time,  when 
Dante  began  his  strange  and  eventful  pilgrimage, 
"  midway  in  this  our  mortal  life,"  he  says  in  the 
first  line  of  the  poem,  that  is  when  he  himself  was 
thirty-five  years  old.  He  finds  himself  lost  in  a 
dense  forest,  not  knowing  how  he  came  there,  and 
after  wandering  for  some  time,  reaches  the  foot  of 
a  lofty  mountain,  whose  top  is  lighted  by  the  rays 
of  the  morning  sun.  He  is  about  to  make  his  way 
thither,  when  he  is  stopped  by  the  appearance,  one 
after  the  other,  of  three  terrible  beasts,  a  leopard, 
a  lion,  and  a  wolf.  He  falls  back  in  terror  to  the 
forest,  when  suddenly  he  sees  a  figure  advancing 
58 


THE   DIVINE   COMEDY 

toward  him  and  learns  that  this  is  Vergil,  who  has 
been  sent  by  Beatrice  (now  in  heaven)  to  lead  her 
lover  from  the  wood  of  sin  to  salvation.  To  do  this 
it  will  be  necessary  for  Dante  to  pass  through  the 
infernal  world,  then  up  the  craggy  heights  of  Pur- 
gatory to  the  Earthly  Paradise,  where  Beatrice  her- 
self will  take  charge  of  him  and  lead  him  from  hea- 
ven to  heaven,  even  to  the  presence  of  God  himself. 
Dante's  courage  and  confidence  fail  at  this  prospect, 
he  is  not  JEneas  or  St.  Paul,  he  says,  to  undertake 
such  supernatural  journeys,  but  when  Vergil  tells 
him  that  Beatrice  herself  has  sent  him,  Dante  ex- 
presses his  willingness  to  undertake  the  difficult 
and  awe-inspiring  task. 

It  is  night-fall  when  they  reach  the  gate  of  Hell, 
over  which  is  written  the  dread  inscription :  — 

Through  me  the  way  is  to  the  city  dolent ; 

Through  me  the  way  is  to  eternal  dole ; 

Through  me  the  way  among  the  people  lost. 
Justice  incited  my  sublime  Creator ; 

Created  me  divine  Omnipotence, 

The  highest  Wisdom  and  the  primal  Love. 
Before  me  there  were  no  created  things, 

Only  eterne,  and  I  eternal  last. 

All  hope  abandon,  ye  who  enter  in ! ' 

Entering  in  they  are  met  with  the  sound  of  sighs, 
moans,  and  lamentations,  mingled  with  curses  hoarse 
69 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

and  deep,  and  the  beating  of  hands,  all  making  a 
hideous  din  in  the  starless  air,  in  which  a  long  train 
of  spirits  are  whirled  about  hither  and  thither, 
stung  by  wasps  and  hornets.  These  spirits  are  the 
souls  of  those  ignoble  ones  who  were  neither  for  God 
nor  against  him. 

This  miserable  mode 
Maintain  the  melancholy  souls  of  those 
Who  lived  withouten  infamy  or  praise. 

Commingled  are  they  with  that  caitiff  choir 
Of  Angels,  who  have  not  rebellious  been, 
Nor  faithful  were  to  God,  but  were  for  self. 

The  heavens  expelled  them,  not  to  be  less  fair ; 
Nor  them  the  nethermore  abyss  receives, 
For  glory  none  the  damned  would  have  from  them. 

Here  Dante  recognizes  the  soul  of  him  who  made 
the  "  great  refusal,"  recalling  thus  the  strange  story 
of  the  aged  hermit,  Peter  Murrone,  who  after  fifty- 
five  years  and  more  of  solitary  life  in  a  cave  high 
up  among  the  Abruzzi  Mountains,  was  forced  to 
ascend  the  papal  throne,  and  who  after  a  short  pe- 
riod of  ineffectual  reign  under  the  name  of  Celes- 
tine  V.,  resigned,  thus  making  way  for  Boniface 
VIII.,  Dante's  bitter  enemy.  Vergil's  contemptu- 
ous remark  concerning  these  souls  — 

"  Let  us  not  speak  of  them,  but  look  and  pass  "  — 

has  become  proverbial. 

60 


THE   DIVINE   COMEDY 

Soon  after  this  the  two  poets  reach  the  shores  of 
the  Acheron,  where  Charon,  the  infernal  boatman, 
is  busy  ferrying  the  souls  of  the  damned  across  the 
river.  He  refuses  to  take  Dante  in  his  boat,  and 
the  latter  falls  into  a  swoon,  from  which  he  is 
aroused  by  a  clap  of  thunder,  and  finds  himself  on 
the  other  side.  How  he  was  carried  over  we  are 
not  told.  The  wanderers  are  now  in  Limbo  or  the 
first  circle  of  Hell,  in  which  are  contained  the  souls 
of  unbaptized  children  and  of  the  great  and  good 
of  the  pagan  world,  especially  the  poets  and  philo- 
sophers of  ancient  Greece  and  Rome,  who,  having 
lived  before  the  coming  of  Christ,  had,  through  no 
fault  of  their  own,  died  without  faith  in  Him  who 
alone  can  save.  These  souls  are  not  punished  by 
physical  pain,  as  is  the  case  with  those  in  the  fol- 
lowing circles,  but  nourishing  forever  a  desire  which 
they  have  no  hope  of  ever  having  satisfied,  they 
pass  the  endless  years  of  eternity  in  gentle  melan- 
choly. Here  Darite  meets  the  spirits  of  Homer, 
Ovid,  Horace,  and  Lucan,  who  treat  him  kindly 
and  make  him  one  of  the  band,  thus  consecrating 
him  as  a  great  poet. 

When  they  together  had  discoursed  somewhat, 
They  turned  to  me  with  signs  of  salutation, 
And  on  beholding  this,  my  Master  smiled ; 
61 


THE  GREAT   POETS   OF  ITALY 

And  more  of  honour  still,  much  more,  they  did  me, 

In  that  they  made  me  one  of  their  own  band ; 

So  that  the  sixth  was  I,  'mid  so  much  wit. 
Thus  we  went  on  as  far  as  to  the  light, 

Things  saying  't  is  becoming  to  keep  silent, 

As  was  the  saying  of  them  where  I  was. 
We  came  unto  a  noble  castle's  foot, 

Seven  times  encompassed  with  lofty  walls, 

Defended  round  by  a  fair  rivulet ; 
This  we  passed  over  even  as  firm  ground ; 

Through  portals  seven  I  entered  with  these  Sages ; 

We  came  into  a  meadow  of  fresh  verdure. 
People  were  there  with  solemn  eyes  and  slow, 

Of  great  authority  in  their  countenance  ; 

They  spake  but  seldom,  and  with  gentle  voices. 
Thus  we  withdrew  ourselves  upon  one  side 

Into  an  opening  luminous  and  lofty, 

So  that  they  all  of  them  were  visible. 
There  opposite,  upon  the  green  enamel, 

Were  pointed  out  to  me  the  mighty  spirits, 

Whom  to  have  seen  I  feel  myself  exalted. 
I  saw  Eleetra  with  companions  many, 

'Mongst  whom  I  knew  both  Hector  and  ^Eneas, 

Caesar  in  armour  with  gerfalcon  eyes ; 
I  saw  Camilla  and  Penthesilea 

On  the  other  side,  and  saw  the  King  Latinus, 

Who  with  Lavinia  his  daughter  sat ; 
I  saw  that  Brutus  who  drove  Tarquin  forth, 

Lucretia,  Julia,  Marcia,  and  Cornelia, 

And  saw  alone,  apart,  the  Saladin. 

Leaving  this  beautiful  oasis  in  the  infernal  de- 
sert, the  poets  enter  the  second  circle,  where  Hell 
62 


THE   DIVINE   COMEDY 

may  be  said  really  to  begin.  Here  Dante  sees  the 
monster  Minos,  the  judge  of  the  infernal  regions, 
who  assigns  to  each  soul  its  proper  circle,  indicating 
the  number  thereof  by  winding  his  tail  about  his 
body  a  corresponding  number  of  times.  In  Circle 
II.  are  the  souls  of  the  licentious,  blown  about  for- 
ever by  a  violent  wind.  Among  them  Dante  re- 
cognizes the  famous  lovers  of  antiquity,  Dido,  Helen, 
Cleopatra.  His  attention  is  especially  attracted  to- 
ward two  spirits,  who,  locked  closely  in  each  other's 
arms,  are  blown  hither  and  thither  like  chaff  be- 
fore the  wind.  Calling  upon  them  to  tell  him  who 
they  are,  he  hears  the  pathetic  story  of  Francesca 
da  Rimini,  perhaps  the  most  famous  and  beautiful 
passage  in  all  poetry  :  — 

After  that  I  had  listened  to  my  Teacher, 
Naming  the  dames  of  eld  and  cavaliers, 
Pity  prevailed,  and  I  was  nigh  bewildered. 

And  I  began  :  "  O  poet,  willingly 

Speak  would  I  to  those  two,  who  go  together 
And  seem  upon  the  wind  to  be  so  light." 

And  he  to  me :  "  Thou  'It  mark,  when  they  shall  be 
Nearer  to  us  ;  and  then  do  thou  implore  them 
By  love  which  leadeth  them,  and  they  will  come." 

Soon  as  the  wind  in  our  direction  sways  them, 
My  voice  uplift  I :  "  O  ye  weary  souls ! 
Come  speak  to  us,  if  no  one  interdicts  it." 

As  turtle-doves,  called  onward  by  desire, 
63 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

With  open  and  steady  wings  to  the  sweet  nest 
Fly  through  the  air  by  their  volition  borne, 

So  came  they  from  the  band  where  Dido  is, 
Approaching  us  athwart  the  air  malign, 
So  strong  was  the  affectionate  appeal. 

"  O  living  creature  gracious  and  benignant, 
Who  visiting  goest  through  the  purple  air 
Us,  who  have  stained  the  world  incarnadine, 

If  were  the  King  of  the  Universe  our  friend, 
We  would  pray  unto  him  to  give  thee  peace, 
Since  thou  hast  pity  on  our  woe  perverse. 

Of  what  it  pleases  thee  to  hear  and  speak, 

That  will  we  hear,  and  we  will  speak  to  you, 
While  silent  is  the  wind,  as  it  is  now. 

Sitteth  the  city,  wherein  I  was  born, 

Upon  the  sea-shore  where  the  Po  descends 
To  rest  in  peace  with  all  his  retinue. 

Love,  that  on  gentle  heart  doth  swiftly  seize, 
Seized  this  man  for  the  person  beautiful 
That  was  ta'en  from  me,  and  still  the  mode  offends  me. 

Love,  that  exempts  no  one  beloved  from  loving, 

Seized  me  with  pleasure  of  this  man  so  strongly, 
That,  as  thou  seest,  it  doth  not  yet  desert  me  ; 

Love  has  conducted  us  unto  one  death  ; 

Caina *  waiteth  him  who  quenched  our  life !  " 
These  words  were  borne  along  from  them  to  us. 

As  soon  as  I  had  heard  those  souls  tormented, 
I  bowed  my  face,  and  so  long  held  it  down 
Until  the  poet  said  to  me  :  "  What  thinkest  ?  " 

When  I  made  answer,  I  began  :  "  Alas  ! 

How  many  pleasant  thoughts,  how  much  desire, 
Conducted  these  unto  the  dolorous  pass  !  " 

1  A  division  of  the  lowest  circle  of  Hell,  where  fratricides  are 

punished. 

64 


THE   DIVINE   COMEDY 

Then  unto  them  I  turned  me,  and  I  spake, 

And  I  began  :  "  Thine  agonies,  Francesca, 
Sad  and  compassionate  to  weeping  make  me. 

But  tell  me,  at  the  time  of  those  sweet  sighs, 

By  what  and  in  what  manner  Love  conceded, 
That  you  should  know  your  dubious  desires  ?  " 

And  she  to  ask  me  :  "  There  is  no  greater  sorrow 
Than  to  be  mindful  of  the  happy  time 
In  misery,  and  that  thy  Teacher 1  knows. 

But,  if  to  recognise  the  earliest  root 

Of  love  in  us  thou  hast  so  great  desire, 

I  will  do  even  as  he  who  weeps  and  speaks. 

One  day  we  reading  were  for  our  delight 

Of  Launcelot,  how  Love  did  him  enthral. 
Alone  we  were  and  without  any  fear. 

Full  many  a  time  our  eyes  together  drew 

That  reading,  and  drove  the  colour  from  our  faces ; 
But  one  point  only  was  it  that  o'ercame  us. 

When  as  we  read  of  the  much-longed-for  smile 
Being  by  such  a  noble  lover  kissed, 
This  one  who  ne'er  from  me  shall  be  divided, 

Kissed  me  upon  the  mouth  all  palpitating. 

Galeotto  2  was  the  book  and  he  who  wrote  it. 
That  day  no  farther  did  we  read  therein." 

And  all  the  while  one  spirit  uttered  this, 

The  other  one  did  weep  so,  that,  for  pity, 
I  swooned  away  as  if  I  had  been  dying, 

And  fell,  even  as  a  dead  body  falls. 

Passing  rapidly  over  Circle  III.,  in  which  the 

1  Boethius,  from  whom  Dante  quotes  this  sentence. 

2  Sir  Galahad,  who  had  brought   Launcelot  and  Queen  Guine- 
vere together.   The  book  did  the  same  thing  for  Paolo  and  Fran- 
cesca. 

65 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

gluttons  lie  in  mire  under  a  pelting  storm  of 
hail,  snow,  and  rain,  torn  to  pieces  by  the  three- 
throated  Cerberus  ;  and  Circle  IV.,  where  misers  and 
spendthrifts  roll  great  weights  against  each  other 
and  upbraid  each  the  other  with  his  besetting  sin  ; 
we  come  to  Circle  V.,  where  in  the  dark  and  dismal 
waters  of  the  Styx,  the  wrathful  and  the  melancholy 
are  plunged.  It  is  worthy  of  note  that  Dante  makes 
low  spirits  or  mental  depression  as  much  a  sin  as 
violence  and  lack  of  self-control :  — 

Said  the  good  Master  :  "  Son,  thou  now  beholdest 
The  souls  of  those  whom  anger  overcame ; 
And  likewise  I  wonld  have  thee  know  for  certain 

Beneath  the  water  people  are  who  sigh 

And  make  this  water  bubble  at  the  surface, 
As  the  eye  tells  thee  wheresoe'er  it  turns. 

Fixed  in  the  mire  they  say,  '  We  sullen  were 

In  the  sweet  air,  which  by  the  sun  is  gladdened, 
Bearing  within  ourselves  the  sluggish  reek ; 

Now  we  are  sullen  in  this  sable  mire.' 

This  hymn  do  they  keep  gurgling  in  their  throats, 
For  with  unbroken  words  they  cannot  say  it." 

Thus  we  went  circling  round  the  filthy  fen 

A  great  arc  'twixt  the  dry  bank  and  the  swamp, 
With  eyes  turned  unto  those  who  gorge  the  mire ; 

Unto  the  foot  of  a  tower  we  came  at  last. 

As  they  stand  at  the  foot  of  this  dark  tower,  a 
light  flashes  from  its  top,  and  another  light,  far  off 
above  the  waters,  sends  back  an  answer  through  the 
66 


THE   DIVINE  COMEDY 

murky  air.    Dante,  full  of  curiosity,  turns  to  Vergil 
for  explanation :  — 

I  say,  continuing,  that  long  before 

We  to  the  foot  of  that  high  tower  had  come, 
Our  eyes  went  upward  to  the  summit  of  it, 

By  reason  of  two  flamelets  we  saw  placed  there, 
And  from  afar  another  answer  them, 
So  far,  that  hardly  could  the  eye  attain  it. 

And,  to  the  sea  of  all  discernment  turned.1 

I  said  :  "  What  sayeth  this  and  what  respondeth 
That  other  fire  ?  and  who  are  they  that  made  it  ?  ** 

And  he  to  me  :   "  Across  the  turbid  waves 

What  is  expected  thon  canst  now  discern,        , 
If  reek  of  the  morass  conceal  it  not." 

Cord  never  shot  an  arrow  from  itself 

That  sped  away  athwart  the  air  so  swift 
As  I  beheld  a  very  little  boat 

Come  o'er  the  water  tow'rds  us  at  that  moment, 
Under  the  guidance  of  a  single  pilot, 
Who  shouted,  "  Now  art  thou  arrived,  fell  soul  ?  " 

Entering  into  this  boat,  they  cross  the  Styx,  and 
soon  approach  the  other  shore,  where  luridly  pictur- 
esque in  the  ink-black  atmosphere  rise  the  red-hot 
walls  and  towers  of  the  city  of  Dis :  — 

And  the  good  Master  said  :  "  Even  now,  my  Son, 
The  city  draweth  near  whose  name  is  Dis, 
With  the  grave  citizens,  with  the  great  throng." 

And  I :  "Its  mosques  already,  Master,  clearly 

*  VergiL 
67 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Within  there  in  the  valley  I  discern 
Vermilion,  as  if  issuing  from  the  fire 

They  were."   And  he  to  me :  "  The  fire  eternal 

That  kindles  them  •within  makes  them  look  red, 
As  thou  beholdest  in  this  nether  Hell." 

Then  we  arrived  within  the  moats  profound, 
That  circumvallate  that  disconsolate  city  ; 
The  walls  appeared  to  me  to  be  of  iron. 

Not  without  making  first  a  circuit  wide, 

We  came  unto  a  place  where  loud  the  pilot 
Cried  out  to  us,  "  Debark,  here  is  the  entrance." 

More  than  a  thousand  at  the  gates  I  saw 

Out  of  the  Heavens  rained  down,  who  angrily 
Were  saying,  "  Who  is  this  that  without  death 

Goes  through  the  kingdom  of  the  people  dead  ?  " 
And  my  sagacious  Master  made  a  sign 
Of  wishing  secretly  to  speak  with  them. 

A  little  then  they  quelled  their  great  disdain, 

And  said  :  "  Come  thou  alone,  and  he  begone 
Who  has  so  boldly  entered  these  dominions. 

Let  him  return  alone  by  his  mad  road  ; 

Try,  if  he  can  ;  for  thou  shalt  here  remain, 

Who  hast  escorted  him  through  such  dark  regions." 

Think,  Reader,  if  I  was  discomforted 
At  utterance  of  the  accursed  words  ; 
For  never  to  return  here  I  believed. 

While  not  only  Dante  but  Vergil  himself  stand  in 
dismay  before  the  closed  gates  of  the  city,  and  the 
threatening  devils  on  the  walls,  they  hear  a  roar 
like  that  of  a  mighty  wind,  and  behold !  over  the 
waters  of  the  Styx  a  celestial  messenger  comes  dry- 
shod,  puts  to  flight  the  recalcitrant  devils,  and  open- 
68 


THE  DIVINE  COMEDY 

ing  the  gates  with  a  touch  of  his  wand,  departs 
without  having  uttered  a  word. 

Entering  the  city,  Dante  sees  a  vast  cemetery 
covered  with  tombs,  whence  issue  flames,  and  in 
which  are  shut  up  the  souls  of  those  who  denied  the 
immortality  of  the  soul.  Here  occurs  the  celebrated 
scene  between  Dante  and  Farinata  degli  Uberti, 
who  alone,  after  the  battle  of  Montaperti,  in  1260, 
when  the  victorious  Ghibellines  seriously  contem- 
plated razing  Florence  to  the  ground,  opposed  the 
proposition  and  thus  saved  his  native  city  from 
destruction.  Here  also  Dante  sees  the  father  of  his 
friend,  Guido  Cavalcanti. 

In  the  centre  of  the  cemetery  yawns  a  tremen- 
dous abyss,  which  leads  to  the  lower  regions  of 
Hell.  Before  they  descend  this,  however,  Vergil 
explains  to  Dante  the  various  kinds  of  sins  which 
are  punished  in  Hell.  Those  he  has  seen  hitherto 
(gluttony,  licentiousness,  avarice,  wrath,  and  melan- 
choly) all  belong  to  the  category  of  incontinence ; 
those  which  are  to  come  are  due  to  malice,  and 
harm  not  only  oneself  but  others.  The  sixth  circle, 
that  of  the  heretics,  in  which  they  now  are,  forms 
a  transition  between  the  above  two  general  divi- 
sions. In  Circle  VII.,  the  next  one  below  them,  are 
punished  the  violent,  subdivided  into  three  classes : 

69 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

1,  those  who  were  violent  against  their  fellow- 
men,  —  tyrants,  murderers,  and  robbers ;  2,  those 
who  were  violent  against  themselves,  —  suicides  and 
gamblers ;  3,  those  who  were  violent  against  God, 
nature,  and  art,  —  blasphemers,  sodomites,  and  usu- 
rers. In  Circles  VIII.  and  IX.  are  the  fraudulent 
and  traitors,  the  various  classes  of  which  are  given 
later. 

After  this  explanation,  the  two  poets  descend  the 
rocky  cliff,  and  find  at  the  bottom  a  blood-red  river, 
where,  guarded  by  centaurs,  are  plunged  the  souls 
of  murderers  and  robbei's,  in  various  depths  accord- 
ing to  the  heinousness  of  their  cruelty  and  crimes. 
Crossing  this  stream  they  come  to  a  dark  and 
gloomy  wood,  composed  of  trees  gnarled  and  twisted 
into  all  sorts  of  fantastic  shapes,  grimly  recalling  the 
contortions  of  a  human  body  in  pain,  and  covered 
with  poisonous  thorns.  On  the  branches  sit  hideous 
harpies,  half  woman,  half  bird.  Each  of  these  trees 
contains  the  soul  of  a  suicide.  Dante,  breaking  off  a 
small  branch,  is  horrified  to  see  human  blood  slowly 
ooze  from  the  break,  while  a  hissing  noise  is  heard, 
like  that  of  escaping  steam,  which  resolves  itself 
finally  into  words.  From  these  words  he  learns 
that  the  soul  contained  in  this  tree  is  that  of  Pier 
delle  Vigne,  prime  minister  of  Frederick  II.,  who 
70 


THE  DIVINE  COMEDY 

tells  his  sad  and  pathetic  story,  how  he  became  the 
victim  of  slander  and  court-intrigue,  and  how,  being 
unjustly  imprisoned  by  his  master,  he  committed 
suicide. 

Beyond  this  gruesome  forest  the  wanderers  come 
out  upon  a  vast,  sandy  desert,  utterly  treeless,  where 
they  see  many  wretched  souls,  some  lying  supine, 
some  crouching  down  in  a  sitting  posture,  some 
walking  incessantly  about,  but  all  forever  trying, 
though  in  vain,  to  ward  off  from  their  naked  bodies 
countless  flakes  of  flame  which  fall  slowly  and  stead- 
ily like  snow 

"  Among  the  Alps  when  the  wind  is  still." 

Here  are  punished  the  blasphemers,  violent  against 
God ;  usurers,  violent  against  art ;  and  sodomites, 
violent  against  nature.  Among  the  latter  Dante 
recognizes  and  converses  with  his  old  friend,  Bru- 
netto  Latin  i,  who  prophesies  to  him  his  future  fame 
and  his  exile  from  Florence,  — 

And  he  to  me :  "  If  thou  thy  star  do  follow, 
Thou  canst  not  fail  thee  of  a  glorious  port, 
If  well  I  judged  in  the  life  beautiful. 

And  if  I  had  not  died  so  prematurely, 

Seeing  Heaven  thus  benignant  unto  thee, 
I  would  have  given  thee  comfort  in  the  work. 

But  that  ungrateful  and  malignant  people,1 

1  The  Florentines. 
71 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Which  of  old  time  from  Fesole  descended, 
And  smacks  still  of  the  mountain  and  the  granite, 
Will  make  itself,  for  thy  good  deeds,  thy  foe ; 
And  it  is  right ;  for  among  crabbed  sorbs 
It  ill  befits  the  sweet  fig  to  bear  fruit." 

To  this  Dante  answers,  — 

"  If  my  entreaty  wholly  were  fulfilled," 

Replied  I  to  him,  "  not  yet  would  you  be 
In  banishment  from  human  nature  placed  ; 

For  in  my  mind  is  fixed,  and  touches  now 

My  heart  the  dear  and  good  paternal  image 
Of  you,  when  in  the  world  from  hour  to  hour 

You  taught  me  how  a  man  becomes  eternal ; 
And  how  much  I  am  grateful,  while  I  live 
Behooves  that  in  my  language  be  discerned. 

What  you  narrate  of  my  career  I  write, 

And  keep  it  to  be  glossed  with  other  text 
By  a  Lady  l  who  can  do  it,  if  I  reach  her. 

This  much  will  I  have  manifest  to  you ; 

Provided  that  my  conscience  do  not  chide  me, 
For  whatsoever  Fortune  I  am  ready. 

Such  handsel  is  not  new  unto  mine  ears ; 

Therefore  let  Fortune  turn  her  wheel  around 

As  it  may  please  her,  and  the  churl  his  mattock." 

The  poets  then  descend  the  tremendous  cliff  lead- 
ing  to  Circle  VIII.  on  the  back  of  Geryon,  a  fan- 
tastic monster,  with  face  of  a  good  man,  but  body 
of  a  beast,  many-colored  and  covered  over  with 
complicated  figures,  being  a  symbol  of  the  fraud 

1  Beatrice. 
72 


THE   DIVINE   COMEDY 

punished  in  the  next  circle.  This  Circle  (VIII.)  is 
subdivided  into  ten  concentric  rings,  or  ditches, 
with  the  floor  gradually  descending  to  a  well  in  the 
centre,  thus  resembling  the  circular  rows  of  seats  in 
an  amphitheatre,  converging  to  the  arena.  In  these 
ten  male-bolge,  as  Dante  calls  them,  i.  e.,  evil  pits, 
are  ten  different  kinds  of  fraudulent,  panderers, 
flatterers,  those  guilty  of  simony,  false  prophets, 
magicians,  thieves,  barterers  (those  who  sell  public 
offices),  evil  counselors,  schismatics,  and  hypocrites, 
all  punished  with  diabolic  ingenuity,  hewn  asun- 
der by  the  sword,  boiled  in  lakes  of  burning  pitch, 
bitten  by  poisonous  snakes,  wasted  by  dire  and  hid- 
eous disease.  As  an  example  of  the  horrors  seen  in 
these  evil  pits  we  give  one  vivid  picture,  that  of  the 
famous  troubadour  Bertrand  de  Born,  who,  having 
incited  the  young  son  of  Henry  II.  of  England  to 
rebel  against  his  father,  is  punished  in  Hell  by  hav- 
ing his  head  cut  off  and  carrying  it  in  his  hand :  — 

But  I  remained  to  look  upon  the  crowd ; 

And  saw  a  thing1  which  I  should  be  afraid, 
Without  some  further  proof,  even  to  recount, 

If  it  were  not  that  conscience  reassures  me, 

That  good  companion  which  emboldens  man 
Beneath  the  hauberk  of  its  feeling  pure. 

I  truly  saw,  and  still  I  seem  to  see  it, 

A  trunk  without  a  head  walk  in  like  manner 
As  walked  the  others  of  the  mournful  herd. 
73 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

And  by  the  hair  it  held  the  head  dissevered, 

Hung  from  the  hand  in  fashion  of  a  lantern, 
And  that  upon  us  gazed  and  said  :  "  O  me !  " 

It  of  itself  made  to  itself  a  lamp, 

And  they  were  two  in  one  and  one  in  two ; 
How  that  can  be,  He  knows  who  so  ordains  it. 

When  it  was  come  close  to  the  bridge's  foot, 
It  lifted  high  its  arm  with  all  the  head, 
To  bring  more  closely  unto  us  its  words, 

Which  were  :  "  Behold  now  the  sore  penalty, 

Thou,  who  dost  breathing  go  the  dead  beholding ; 
Behold  if  any  be  as  great  as  this. 

And  so  that  thou  may  carry  news  of  me, 

Know  that  Bertram  de  Born  am  I,  the  same 
Who  gave  to  the  Young  King  the  evil  comfort. 

I  made  the  father  and  the  son  rebellious ; 
Achitophel  not  more  with  Absalom 
And  David  did  with  his  accursed  goadinga. 

Because  I  parted  persons  so  united, 

Parted  do  I  now  bear  my  brain,  alas  ! 
From  its  beginning,  which  is  in  this  trunk. 

Thus  is  observed  in  me  the  counterpoise." 

In  the  eighth  pit  are  the  souls  of  evil  counselors, 
so  completely  swathed  in  flames  that  their  forms 
cannot  be  seen.  Dante's  attention  is  especially  at- 
tracted to  one  of  these  moving  flames,  with  a  double- 
tipped  point,  which  proves  to  contain  the  souls  of 
Diomede  and  Ulysses,  who,  as  they  had  once  been 
together  in  fraud,  are  now  inseparable  in  punish- 
ment. This  story  of  his  last  voyage  and  final  ship- 
74 


THE   DIVINE  COMEDY 

wreck,  told  by  Ulysses,  how  in  his  old  age,  weary 
of  the  monotony  of  home  life  and  longing  to  know 
the  secret  of  the  great  Western  ocean,  he  set  sail 
with  his  old  companions,  is  full  of  imaginative 
grandeur,  — 

When  now  the  flame  had  come  unto  that  point, 
Where  to  ray  leader  it  seemed  time  and  place, 
After  this  fashion  did  I  hear  him  speak : 

"  O  ye,  who  are  twofold  within  one  fire, 

If  I  deserved  of  you,  while  I  was  living, 
If  I  deserved  of  you  or  much  or  little 

When  in  the  world  I  wrote  the  lofty  verses, 
Do  not  move  on,  but  one  of  you  declare 
Whither,  being  lost,  he  went  away  to  die." 

Then  of  the  antique  flame  the  greater  horn, 
Murmuring,  began  to  wave  itself  about 
Even  as  a  flame  doth  which  the  wind  fatigues. 

Thereafterward,  the  summit  to  and  fro 

Moving  as  if  it  were  the  tongue  that  spake, 
It  uttered  forth  a  voice,  and  said  :  "  When  I 

From  Circe  had  departed,  who  concealed  me 
More  than  a  year  there  near  unto  Gaeta, 
Or  ever  yet  ./Eneas  named  it  so, 

Nor  fondness  for  my  son,  nor  reverence 

For  my  old  father,  nor  the  due  affection 
Which  joyous  should  have  made  Penelope, 

Could  overcome  within  me  the  desire 

I  had  to  be  experienced  of  the  world, 
And  of  the  vice  and  virtue  of  mankind ; 

But  I  put  forth  on  the  high  open  sea 

With  one  sole  ship,  and  that  small  company 
By  which  I  never  had  deserted  been. 
75 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Both  of  the  shores  I  saw  as  far  as  Spain, 
Far  as  Morocco,  and  the  isle  of  Sardes, 
And  the  others  which  that  sea  bathes  round  about. 

I  and  my  company  were  old  and  slow 

When  at  that  narrow  passage  we  arrived 
Where  Hercules  his  landmarks  set  as  signals,1 

That  man  no  farther  onward  should  adventure. 
On  the  right  hand  behind  me  left  I  Seville, 
And  on  the  other  already  had  left  Ceuta. 

1 0  brothers,  who  amid  a  hundred  thousand 
Perils,'  I  said, '  have  come  unto  the  West, 
To  this  so  inconsiderable  vigil 

Which  is  remaining  of  your  senses  still 

Be  ye  unwilling  to  deny  the  knowledge, 
Following  the  sun,  of  the  unpeopled  world. 

Consider  ye  the  seed  from  which  ye  sprang ; 
Ye  were  not  made  to  live  like  unto  brutes, 
But  for  pursuit  of  virtue  and  of  knowledge.' 

So  eager  did  I  render  my  companions, 

With  this  brief  exhortation,  for  the  voyage, 
That  then  I  hardly  could  have  held  them  back. 

And  having  turned  our  stern  unto  the  morning, 

We  of  the  oars  made  wings  for  our  mad  flight, 
Evermore  gaining  on  the  larboard  side. 

Already  all  the  stars  of  the  other  pole 

The  night  beheld,  and  ours  so  very  low 
It  did  not  rise  above  the  ocean  floor. 

Five  times  rekindled  and  as  many  quenched 

Had  been  the  splendour  underneath  the  moon, 
Since  we  had  entered  into  the  deep  pass, 

When  there  appeared  to  us  a  mountain,  dim 

1  The  Straits  of  Gibraltar. 
76 


THE  DIVINE   COMEDY 

From  distance,  and  it  seemed  to  me  so  high 
As  I  had  never  any  one  beheld. 

Joyful  were  we,  and  soon  it  turned  to  weeping ; 
For  out  of  the  new  land  a  whirlwind  rose, 
And  smote  upon  the  fore  part  of  the  ship. 

Three  times  it  made  her  whirl  with  all  the  waters, 
At  the  fourth  time  it  made  the  stern  uplift, 
And  the  prow  downward  go,  as  pleased  Another, 

Until  the  sea  above  us  closed  again." 

In  the  centre  of  the  amphitheatre  of  Male-bolge 
is  a  deep  and  vast  well,  guarded  by  giants,  one  of 
whom  takes  the  poets  in  his  arms  and  deposits  them 
at  the  bottom.  Here  they  find  the  ninth  and  last 
circle,  where  in  four  divisions  the  traitors  against 
relatives,  friends,  country,  and  benefactors,  are  fixed 
(like  flies  in  amber)  in  a  solid  lake  of  ice,  swept 
by  bitter,  cold  winds.  Among  the  traitors  to  their 
country  Dante  sees  one  man  who  is  gnawing  in  re- 
lentless rage  at  the  head  of  another  fixed  in  the  ice 
in  front  of  him.  Inquiring  the  cause  of  this  terri- 
ble cruelty,  Dante  hears  the  following  story,  couched 
in  language  which  Goethe  has  declared  to  be  with- 
out an  equal  in  all  poetry :  — 

His  mouth  uplifted  from  his  grim  repast, 

That  sinner,  wiping  it  upon  the  hair 

Of  the  same  head  that  he  behind  had  wasted. 
Then  he  began :  "  Thou  wilt  that  I  renew 

The  desperate  grief,  which  wrings  my  heart  already 

To  think  of  only,  ere  I  speak  of  it ; 
77 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

But  if  my  words  be  seed  that  may  bear  fruit 
Of  infamy  to  the  traitor  whom  I  gnaw, 
Speaking  and  weeping  shalt  thou  see  together. 

I  know  not  who  thou  art,  nor  by  what  mode 

Thon  hast  come  down  here ;  but  a  Florentine 
Thou  seemest  to  me  truly,  when  I  hear  thee. 

Thon  hast  to  know  I  was  Count  Ugolino,1 

And  this  one  was  Ruggieri  the  Archbishop ; 
Now  I  will  tell  thee  why  I  am  such  a  neighbor. 

That,  by  effect  of  his  malicious  thoughts, 
Trusting  in  him  I  was  made  prisoner, 
And  after  put  to  death,  I  need  not  say ; 

But  ne'ertheless  what  thou  canst  not  have  heard, 
That  is  to  say,  how  cruel  was  my  death, 
Hear  shalt  thou,  and  shalt  know  if  he  has  wronged  me. 

A  narrow  perforation  in  the  mew, 

Which  bears  because  of  me  the  title  of  Famine, 
And  in  which  others  still  must  be  locked  up, 

Had  shown  me  through  its  opening  many  moons 
Already,  when  I  dreamed  the  evil  dream 
Which  of  the  future  rent  for  me  the  veil. 

This  one  appeared  to  me  as  lord  and  master, 

Hunting  the  wolf  and  whelps  upon  the  mountain 
For  which  the  Pisans  cannot  Lucca  see. 

With  sleuth-hounds  gaunt,  and  eager,  and  well  trained, 
Gualandi  with  Sismondi  and  Lanf  ranchi 
He  had  sent  out  before  him  to  the  front. 

After  brief  course  seemed  unto  me  forespent 

The  father  and  the  sons,  and  with  sharp  tushes 
It  seemed  to  me  I  saw  their  flanks  ripped  open. 

1  Count  Ugolino  della  Gherardesca  was  Podesta  of  Pisa.  With 
his  two  sons  and  grandsons  he  was  thrown  into  a  tower  and  starved 
to  death. 

78 


THE   DIVINE  COMEDY 

When  I  before  the  morrow  was  awake, 

Moaning  amid  their  sleep  I  heard  my  sons 

Who  with  me  were,  and  asking  after  bread. 
Cruel  indeed  art  thou,  if  yet  thou  grieve  not, 

Thinking  of  what  my  heart  foreboded  me, 

And  weep'st  thou  not,  what  art  thou  wont  to  weep  at  ? 
They  were  awake  now,  and  the  hour  drew  nigh 

At  which  our  food  used  to  be  brought  to  us, 

And  through  his  dream  was  each  one  apprehensive ; 
And  I  heard  locking  up  the  under  door 

Of  the  horrible  tower ;  whereat  without  a  word 

I  gazed  into  the  faces  of  my  sons. 
I  wept  not,  I  within  so  turned  to  stone  ; 

They  wept ;  and  darling  little  Anselm  mine 

Said  :  '  Thou  dost  gaze  so,  father,  what  doth  ail  thee? ' 
Still  not  a  tear  I  shed,  nor  answer  made 

All  of  that  day,  nor  yet  the  night  thereafter, 

Until  another  sun  rose  on  the  world. 
As  now  a  little  glimmer  made  its  way 

Into  the  dolorous  prison,  and  I  saw 

Upon  four  faces  my  own  very  aspect, 
Both  of  my  hands  in  agony  I  bit ; 

And,  thinking  that  I  did  it  from  desire 

Of  eating,  on  a  sudden  they  uprose, 
And  said  they :  '  Father,  much  less  pain  't  will  give  ua 

If  thou  do  eat  of  us  ;  thyself  didst  clothe  us 

With  this  poor  flesh,  and  do  thou  strip  it  off.' 
I  calmed  me  then,  not  to  make  them  more  sad. 

That  day  we  all  were  silent,  and  the  next. 

Ah  I  obdurate  earth,  wherefore  didst  thou  not  open  ? 
When  we  had  come  unto  the  fourth  day,  Gaddo 

Threw  himself  down  outstretched  before  my  feet, 

Saying, '  My  father,  why  dost  thou  not  help  me  ? ' 
And  there  he  died ;  and,  as  thou  seest  me, 
79 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

I  saw  the  three  fall,  one  by  one,  between 

The  fifth  day  and  the  sixth  ;  whence  I  betook  me, 

Already  blind,  to  groping  over  each, 

And  three  days  called  them  after  they  were  dead ; 
Then  hunger  did  what  sorrow  could  not  do." 

When  he  had  said  this,  with  his  eyes  distorted, 

The  wretched  skull  resumed  he  with  his  teeth, 
Which,  as  a  dog's,  upon  the  bone  were  strong. 

Arriving  at  the  very  bottom  of  Hell,  the  poets 
see  the  body  of  Lucifer  fixed  in  the  centre  thereof 
(which  is  at  the  same  time  the  centre  of  the  earth 
and  of  the  universe),  with  its  upper  part  projecting 
into  the  freezing  air.  This  monstrous  figure,  as  hid- 
eous now  as  it  had  been  beautiful  before  his  revolt 
against  God,  has  three  pair  of  wings  and  three 
heads,  in  the  mouths  of  which  he  tears  to  pieces 
the  three  arch-traitors,  Judas,  Brutus,  and  Cassius. 

The  wanderers  climb  along  the  hairy  sides  of  Lu- 
cifer and  finally  reach  a  cavity  which  corresponds 
to  the  lowest  part  of  Hell,  and  up  into  which  are 
thrust  the  legs  of  the  monster.  They  have  thus 
passed  the  centre  of  earth  and  are  now  in  the  other 
or  southern  hemisphere.  Making  their  way  upward 
along  the  course  of  a  stream  they  finally  come  out 
into  the  open  air,  where  the  mount  of  Purgatory 
rises  sheer  up  from  the  surface  of  the  great  southern 
sea. 

80 


THE   DIVINE  COMEDY 

The  first  cantos  of  the  "  Purgatorio  "  are  of  won- 
derful beauty,  and  their  loveliness  is  heightened  by 
contrast,  coming  as  it  does  after  the  darkness,  filth, 
and  horrors  of  Hell.  Issuing  from  the  subterra- 
nean passage  just  before  sunrise,  the  poets  see 
before  them  a  vast  expanse  of  sea,  lighted  up  by 
the  soft  rays  of  Venus,  the  morning  star,  and  grad- 
ually becoming  brighter  as  the  dawn  advances  :  — 

Sweet  colour  of  the  oriental  sapphire, 

That  was  npgathered  in  the  cloudless  aspect 
Of  the  pure  air,  as  far  as  the  first  circle, 

Unto  mine  eyes  did  recommence  delight 

Soon  as  I  issued  forth  from  the  dead  air, 

Which  had  with  sadness  filled  mine  eyes  and  breast. 

The  beauteous  planet,  that  to  love  incites, 
Was  making  all  the  orient  to  laugh, 
Veiling  the  Fishes  that  were  in  her  escort. 

To  the  right  hand  I  turned,  and  fixed  my  mind 
Upon  the  other  pole,  and  saw  four  stars 
Ne'er  seen  before  save  by  the  primal  people. 

Rejoicing  in  their  flamelets  seemed  the  heaven. 
O  thou  septentrional  and  widowed  site, 
Because  thou  art  deprived  of  seeing  these ! 

As  they  stand  watching  this  scene,  a  venerable 
old  man  (Cato,  the  guardian  of  the  island)  ap- 
proaches and  tells  them  to  go  to  the  seashore  and 
wipe  off  the  stains  of  Hell  with  the  reeds  that  grow 
there :  — 

81 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

The  dawn  was  vanquishing  the  matin  hour 
Which  fled  before  it,  so  that  from  afar 
I  recognised  the  trembling  of  the  sea. 

Along  the  solitary  plain  we  went 

As  one  who  unto  the  lost  road  returns, 
And  till  he  finds  it  seems  to  go  in  vain. 

As  soon  as  we  were  come  to  where  the  dew 
Fights  with  the  sun,  and,  being  in  a  part 
Where  shadow  falls,  little  evaporates, 

Both  of  his  hands  upon  the  grass  outspread 
In  gentle  manner  did  my  Master  place ; 
Whence  I,  who  of  his  action  was  aware, 

Extended  unto  him  my  tearful  cheeks ; 

There  did  he  make  in  me  uncovered  wholly 
That  hue  which  Hell  had  covered  up  in  me. 

Then  came  we  down  upon  the  desert  shore 
Which  never  yet  saw  navigate  its  waters 
Any  that  afterward  had  known  return. 

There  he  begirt  me  as  the  other  pleased  ; 
O  marvellous !  for  even  as  he  culled 
The  humble  plant,  such  it  sprang  up  again 

Suddenly  there  where  he  uprooted  it. 

As  they  linger  by  the  seaside,  they  see  a  bright 
light  far  off  over  the  waters,  which,  as  it  approaches, 
turns  out  to  be  a  boat  wafted  by  angelic  wings  and 
bearing  to  Purgatory  the  souls  of  the  saved,  among 
them  a  musician,  a  friend  of  Dante's,  who  at  hia 
request  sings  one  of  the  poet's  own  songs :  — 

Already  had  the  sun  the  horizon  reached 
Whose  circle  of  meridian  covers  o'er 
Jerusalem  with  its  most  lofty  point, 
82 


THE   DIVINE   COMEDY 

And  night  that  opposite  to  him  revolves 

Was  issuing  forth  from  Ganges  with  the  Scales 
That  fall  from  out  her  hand  when  she  exceedeth ; 

So  that  the  white  and  the  vermilion  cheeks 
Of  beautiful  Aurora,  where  I  was, 
By  too  great  age  were  changing  into  orange. 

We  still  were  on  the  border  of  the  sea, 

Like  people  who  are  thinking  of  their  road, 
Who  go  in  heart,  and  with  the  body  stay ; 

And  lo  !  as  when,  upon  the  approach  of  morning, 
Through  the  gross  vapours  Mars  grows  fiery  red 
Down  in  the  West  upon  the  ocean  floor, 

Appeared  to  me  —  may  I  again  behold  it !  — 
A  light  along  the  sea  so  swiftly  coming, 
Its  motion  by  no  flight  of  wing  is  equalled ; 

From  which  when  I  a  little  had  withdrawn 

Mine  eyes,  that  I  might  question  my  Conductor, 
Again  I  saw  it  brighter  grown  and  larger. 

Then  on  each  side  of  it  appeared  to  me 

I  knew  not  what  of  white,  and  underneath  it 
Little  by  little  there  came  forth  another. 

My  Master  yet  bad  uttered  not  a  word 

While  the  first  whiteness  into  wings  unfolded ; 
But  when  he  clearly  recognised  the  pilot, 

He  cried  :  "  Make  haste,  make  haste,  to  bow  the  knee  1 
Behold  the  Angel  of  God  !  fold  thou  thy  hands  I 
Henceforward  shalt  thou  see  such  officers ! 

See  how  he  scorneth  human  arguments, 
So  that  nor  oar  he  wants,  nor  other  sail 
Than  his  own  wings,  between  so  distant  shores. 

See  how  he  holds  them  pointed  up  to  heaven, 
Fanning  the  air  with  the  eternal  pinions, 
That  do  not  moult  themselves  like  mortal  hair  !  " 


83 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Then  as  still  nearer  and  more  near  us  came 

The  Bird  Divine,  more  radiant  he  appeared, 
So  that  near  by  the  eye  could  not  endure  him, 

But  down  I  cast  it ;  and  he  came  to  shore 

With  a  small  vessel,  very  swift  and  light, 
So  that  the  water  swallowed  naught  thereof. 

Upon  the  stern  stood  the  Celestial  Pilot  ; 
Beatitude  seemed  written  in  his  face, 
And  more  than  a  hundred  spirits  sat  within. 
*  In  exitu  Israel  de  ^Egypto  !  " 

They  chanted  all  together  in  one  voice, 
With  whatso  in  that  psalm  is  after  written. 

Then  made  he  sign  of  holy  rood  upon  them, 

Whereat  all  cast  themselves  upon  the  shore, 
And  he  departed  swiftly  as  he  came. 

The  throng  which  still  remained  there  unfamiliar 

Seemed  with  the  place,  all  round  about  them  gazing, 
As  one  who  in  new  matters  makes  essay. 

On  every  side  was  darting  forth  the  day 

The  sun  who  had  with  his  resplendent  shafts 
From  the  mid-heaven  chased  forth  the  Capricorn, 

When  the  new  people  lifted  up  their  faces 
Towards  us,  saying  to  us :  "  If  ye  know, 
Show  us  the  way  to  go  unto  the  mountain." 

And  answer  made  Virgilius :  ' '  Ye  believe 

Perchance  that  we  have  knowledge  of  this  place, 
But  we  are  strangers  even  as  yourselves. 

Just  now  we  came,  a  little  while  before  you, 

Another  way,  which  was  so  rough  and  steep, 
That  mounting  will  henceforth  seem  sport  to  ug." 

The  souls  who  had,  from  seeing  me  draw  breath, 
Become  aware  that  I  was  still  alive, 
Pallid  in  their  astonishment  became ; 

And  as  to  messenger  who  bears  the  olive 
84 


THE   DIVINE  COMEDY 

The  people  throng  to  listen  to  the  news, 

And  no  one  shows  himself  afraid  of  crowding, 
So  at  the  sight  of  me  stood  motionless 

Those  fortunate  spirits,  all  of  them,  as  if 

Oblivious  to  go  and  make  them  fair. 
One  from  among  them  saw  I  coming  forward, 

As  to  embrace  me,  with  such  great  affection, 

That  it  incited  me  to  do  the  like. 

0  empty  shadows,  save  in  aspect  only ! 

Three  times  behind  it  did  I  clasp  my  hands, 
As  oft  returned  with  them  to  my  own  breast ! 

1  think  with  wonder  I  depicted  me  ; 

Whereat  the  shadow  smiled  and  backward  drew  ; 

And  I,  pursuing  it,  pressed  farther  forward. 
Gently  it  said  that  I  should  stay  my  steps  ; 

Then  knew  I  who  it  was,  and  I  entreated 

That  it  would  stop  awhile  to  speak  with  me. 
It  made  reply  to  me  :   "  Even  as  I  loved  thee 

In  mortal  body,  so  I  love  thee  free  ; 

Therefore  I  stop ;  but  wherefore  goest  thou  ?  " 
"  My  own  Casella !  to  return  once  more 

There  where  I  am,  I  make  this  journey,"  said  I ; 

"  But  how  from  thee  has  so  much  time  been  taken  ?  " 
And  he  to  me  :  "  No  outrage  has  been  done  me, 

If  he  who  takes  both  when  and  whom  he  pleasea 

Has  many  times  denied  to  me  this  passage, 
For  of  a  righteous  will  hia  own  is  made. 

He,  sooth  to  say,  for  three  months  past  has  taken 

Whoever  wished  to  enter  with  all  peace  ; 
Whence  I,  who  now  had  turned  unto  that  shore 

Where  salt  the  waters  of  the  Tiber  grow, 

Benignantly  by  him  have  been  received. 
Unto  that  outlet  now  his  wing  is  pointed, 


85 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Because  for  evermore  assemble  there 
Those  who  tow'rds  Acheron  do  not  descend." 

And  I :  "  If  some  new  law  take  not  from  thee 
Memory  or  practice  of  the  song  of  love, 
Which  used  to  quiet  in  me  all  my  longings, 

Thee  may  it  please  to  comfort  therewithal 

Somewhat  this  soul  of  mine,  that  with  its  body 
Hither  ward  coming  is  so  much  distressed." 
"  Love,  that  within  my  mind  discourses  with  me,"1 
Forthwith  began  he  so  melodiously, 
The  melody  within  me  still  is  sounding. 

My  Master,  and  myself,  and  all  that  people 

Which  with  him  were,  appeared  as  satisfied 
As  if  naught  else  might  touch  the  mind  of  any. 

We  all  of  us  were  moveless  and  attentive 

Unto  his  notes  ;  and  lo !  the  grave  old  man, 
Exclaiming :  "  What  is  this,  ye  laggard  spirits  ? 

What  negligence,  what  standing  still  is  this  ? 
Run  to  the  mountain  to  strip  off  the  slough, 
That  lets  not  God  be  manifest  to  you." 

Even  as  when,  collecting  grain  or  tares, 

The  doves,  together  at  their  pasture  met, 
Quiet,  nor  showing  their  accustomed  pride, 

If  aught  appear  of  which  they  are  afraid, 
Upon  a  sudden  leave  their  food  alone, 
Because  they  are  assailed  by  greater  care ; 

So  that  fresh  company  did  I  behold 

The  song  relinquish,  and  go  tow'rds  the  hill, 
As  one  who  goes,  and  knows  not  whitherward ; 

Nor  was  our  own  departure  less  in  haste. 

Thus  rebuked  by  Cato  for  delaying,  even  thus 

1  This  is  the  first  line  of  the  second  canzone  of  Dante's  Banquet. 
86 


THE  DIVINE  COMEDY 

innocently,  their  first  duty,  which  is  to  purge  away 
their  sins,  the  company  of  spirits  breaks  up,  and 
Dante  and  Vergil  make  their  way  to  the  mountain 
of  Purgatory,  which  lifts  its  seven  terraces  almost 
perpendicularly  from  the  sea. 

Before  reaching  the  first  of  these  terraces,  how- 
ever, they  pass  over  a  steep  and  rocky  slope,  Ante- 
purgatory,  as  it  may  be  called,  where  linger  the 
souls  of  those  who,  although  saved,  neglected  their 
repentance  till  late  in  life,  or  who  died  in  contumacy 
with  Holy  Church.  Among  the  latter  Dante  sees 
Manfred,  the  unfortunate  son  of  Frederick  II., 

"  Beautiful  and  of  noble  aspect," 

who  was  slain  at  Benevento,  in  1266,  and  likewise 
Buonconte  da  Montefeltro,  who  was  killed  in  the 
battle  of  Campaldino  (1289),  and  whose  account 
of  the  post-mortem  fate  of  his  body  is  singularly 
impressive :  "  There  is  nothing  like  it  in  literature," 
says  Ruskin :  — 

And  I  to  him:  "  What  violence  or  what  chance 
Led  thee  astray  so  far  from  Campaldino, 
That  never  has  thy  sepulture  been  known  ?  " 
"  Oh,"  he  replied,  "  at  Casentino's  foot 

A  river  crosses  named  Archiano,  born 
Above  the  Hermitage  in  Apennine. 

There  where  the  name  thereof  becometh  void  1 

1  Where  the  Archiano  loses  its  name  by  flowing  into  the  Arno. 
87 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Did  I  arrive,  pierced  through  and  through  the  throat, 

Fleeing  on  foot,  and  bloodying  the  plain  ; 
There  my  sight  lost  I,  and  my  utterance 

Ceased  in  the  name  of  Mary,  and  thereat 

I  fell,  and  tenantless  my  flesh  remained. 
Truth  will  I  speak,  repeat  it  to  the  living ; 

God's  Angel  took  me  up,  and  he  of  hell 

Shouted  :  '  O  thou  from  heaven,  why  dost  thou  rob  me  ? 
Thou  bearest  away  the  eternal  part  of  him, 

For  one  poor  little  tear,  that  takes  him  from  me  ; 

But  with  the  rest  I  '11  deal  in  other  fashion ! ' 
Well  knowest  thou  how  in  the  air  is  gathered 

That  humid  vapour  which  to  water  turns, 

Soon  as  it  rises  where  the  cold  doth  grasp  it. 
He  joined  that  evil  will,  which  aye  seeks  evil, 

To  intellect,  and  moved  the  mist  and  wind 

By  means  of  power,  which  his  own  nature  gave ; 
Thereafter,  when  the  day  was  spent,  the  valley 

From  Pratomagno  to  the  great  yoke 1  covered 

With  fog,  and  made  the  heaven  above  intent, 
So  that  the  pregnant  air  to  water  changed ; 

Down  fell  the  rain,  and  to  the  gullies  came 

Whate'er  of  it  earth  tolerated  not ; 
And  as  it  mingled  with  the  mighty  torrents, 

Towards  the  royal  river  with  such  speed 

It  headlong  rushed,  that  nothing  held  it  back. 
My  frozen  body  near  unto  its  outlet 

The  robust  Archian  found,  and  into  Arno 

Thrust  it,  and  loosened  from  my  breast  the  cross 
I  made  of  me,  when  agony  o'ercame  me ; 

It  rolled  me  on  the  banks  and  on  the  bottom, 

Then  with  its  booty  covered  and  begirt  me." 

1  Ridge  of  the  Apennines. 
88 


THE   DIVINE   COMEDY 

After  leaving  Buonconte,  Dante  and  Vergil  make 
their  way  upward  and  finally  come  across  the  spirit 
of  Bordello,  the  famous  troubadour,  a  native  of 
Mantua  and  thus  a  fellow-citizen  of  Vergil.  The 
cordiality  with  which  they  greet  each  other  gives 
Dante  an  opportunity  to  vent  his  indignation  at 
the  discord  existing  in  Italy :  — 

Ah !  servile  Italy,  grief's  hostelry ! 

A  ship  without  a  pilot  in  great  tempest ! 

No  Lady  thou  of  Provinces,  but  brothel ! 
That  noble  soul  was  so  impatient,  only 

At  the  sweet  sound  of  his  own  native  land, 

To  make  its  citizen  glad  welcome  there ; 
And  now  within  thee  are  not  without  war 

Thy  living  ones,  and  one  doth  gnaw  the  other 

Of  those  whom  one  wall  and  one  fosse  shut  in ! 
Search,  wretched  one,  all  round  about  the  shores 

Thy  seaboard,  and  then  look  within  thy  bosom, 

If  any  part  of  thee  enjoyeth  peace ! 

As  night  is  coming  on,  during  which  upward  pro- 
gress cannot  be  made,  Sordello  conducts  Dante  and 
Vergil  to  a  pleasant  valley :  — 

Little  had  we  withdrawn  us  from  that  place, 

When  I  perceived  the  mount  was  hollowed  out 
In  fashion  as  the  valleys  here  are  hollowed. 
"  Thitherward,"  said  that  shade,  "  will  we  repair, 
Where  of  itself  the  hill-side  makes  a  lap, 
And  there  for  the  new  day  will  we  await." 
'T  wizt  hill  and  plain  there  was  a  winding  path 
89 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Which  led  us  to  the  margin  of  that  dell, 
Where  dies  the  border  more  than  half  away. 

Gold  and  fine  silver,  and  scarlet  and  pearl-white, 
The  Indian  wood  resplendent  and  serene, 
Fresh  emerald  the  moment  it  is  broken, 

By  herbage  and  by  flowers  within  that  hollow 

Planted,  each  one  in  colour  would  be  vanquished, 
As  by  its  greater  vanquished  is  the  less. 

Nor  in  that  place  had  nature  painted  only, 

But  of  the  sweetness  of  a  thousand  odours 
Made  there  a  mingled  fragrance  and  unknown. 
"  Salve  Regina"  on  the  green  and  flowers 

There  seated,  singing,  spirits  I  beheld, 
Which  were  not  visible  outside  the  valley. 

Here  Sordello  points  out  the  souls  of  mighty  princes 
who  left  deep  traces  in  the  history  of  the  times, 
among  them  the  Emperor  Rudolph  of  Germany, 
Peter  of  Aragon,  Philip  III.  of  France,  and 

"  The  monarch  of  the  simple  life," 

Henry  III.  of  England.  The  scene  that  follows  is 
one  of  the  most  celebrated  as  well  as  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  passages  in  the  "  Divine  Comedy" : — 

'T  was  now  the  hour  that  turneth  back  desire 

In  those  who  sail  the  sea,  and  melts  the  heart, 

The  day  they  've  said  to  their  sweet  friends  farewell, 

And  the  new  pilgrim  penetrates  with  love, 
If  he  doth  hear  from  far  away  a  bell 
That  seemeth  to  deplore  the  dying  day, 

When  I  began  to  make  of  no  avail 
90 


THE   DIVINE   COMEDY 

My  hearing,  and  to  watch  one  of  the  souls 
Uprisen,  that  begged  attention  with  its  hand. 

It  joined  and  lifted  upward  both  its  palms, 
Fixing  its  eyes  upon  the  orient, 
As  if  it  said  to  God,  "  Naught  else  I  care  for." 
"  Te  lucis  ante  "  so  devoutly  issued 

Forth  from  its  mouth,  and  with  such  dulcet  notes, 
It  made  me  issue  forth  from  my  own  mind. 

And  then  the  others,  sweetly  and  devoutly, 

Accompanied  it  through  all  the  hymn  entire, 
Having  their  eyes  on  the  supernal  wheels. 

Here,  Reader,  fix  thine  eyes  well  on  the  truth, 
For  now  indeed  so  subtile  is  the  veil, 
Snrely  to  penetrate  within  is  easy. 

I  saw  that  army  of  the  gentle-born 

Thereafterward  in  silence  upward  gaze, 
As  if  in  expectation,  pale  and  humble ; 

And  from  on  high  come  forth  and  down  descend, 
I  saw  two  Angels  with  two  flaming  swords, 
Truncated  and  deprived  of  their  points. 

Green  as  the  little  leaflets  just  now  born 

Their  garments  were,  which,  by  their  verdant  pinions 
Beaten  and  blown  abroad,  they  trailed  behind. 

One  just  above  us  came  to  take  his  station, 
And  one  descended  to  the  opposite  bank, 
So  that  the  people  were  contained  between  them. 

Clearly  in  them  discerned  I  the  blond  head  ; 
But  in  their  faces  was  the  eye  bewildered, 
As  faculty  confounded  by  excess. 
"  From  Mary's  bosom  both  of  them  have  come," 
Sordello  said,  ' '  as  guardians  of  the  valley 
Against  the  serpent,  that  will  come  anon." 

Whereupon  I,  who  knew  not  by  what  road, 


91 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Turned  round  about,  and  closely  drew  myself, 

Utterly  frozen,  to  the  faithful  shoulders. 
........... 

My  greedy  eyes  still  wandered  up  to  heaven, 

Still  to  that  point  where  slowest  are  the  stars, 
Even  as  a  wheel  the  nearest  to  its  axle. 

And  my  Conductor :  "  Son,  what  dost  thou  gaze  at 

Up  there  ?  "  And  I  to  him  :   "  At  those  three  torches 
With  which  this  hither  pole  is  all  on  fire." 

And  he  to  me  :  "  The  four  resplendent  stars 

Thou  sawest  this  morning  are  down  yonder  low, 
And  these  have  mounted  up  to  where  those  were." 

As  he  was  speaking,  to  himself  Sordello 

Drew  him,  and  said,  "  Lo  there  our  Adversary  ! " 
And  pointed  with  his  finger  to  look  thither. 

Upon  the  side  on  which  the  little  valley 

No  barrier  hath,  a  serpent  was  ;  perchance 
The  same  which  gave  to  Eve  the  bitter  food. 

'Twixt  grass  and  flowers  came  on  the  evil  streak, 
Turning  at  times  its  head  about,  and  licking 
Its  back  like  to  a  beast  that  smoothes  itself. 

I  did  not  see,  and  therefore  cannot  say 

How  the  celestial  falcons  'gau  to  move, 

But  well  I  saw  that  they  were  both  in  motion. 

Hearing  the  air  cleft  by  their  verdant  wings, 

The  serpent  fled,  and  round  the  Angels  wheeled, 
Up  to  their  stations  flying  back  alike. 

After  conversing  with  several  friends  whom  he 
meets  here,  Dante  falls  asleep  and  is  carried,  thus 
unconscious,  by  Lucia  (symbol  of  divine  grace)  to 
the  gate  of  Purgatory  proper.  When  he  awakes 
the  sun  is  two  hours  high.  Three  steps  lead  to  the 
92 


THE   DIVINE  COMEDY 

gate,  one  dark  and  broken,  symbol  of  a  "  broken 
and  a  contrite  heart  "  ;  one  of  smooth,  white  mar- 
ble (confession),  and  one  purple  (repentance). 
On  the  threshold  of  diamond  (the  immovable  foun- 
dation of  Holy  Church)  sits  an  angel  with  a  sword 
and  two  keys ;  with  the  former  he  cuts  seven  P's  on 
Dante's  forehead  (alluding  to  the  Latin  word  for 
sin,  peccaturn),  and  with  the  latter  he  opens  the 
gate,  which  as  it  swings  open  sends  forth  a  sound 
of  heavenly  music :  — 

Then  pushed  the  portals  of  the  sacred  door, 

Exclaiming :  "  Enter ;  but  I  give  you  warning 
That  forth  returns  whoever  looks  behind." 

And  when  upon  their  hinges  were  turned  round 
The  swivels  of  that  consecrated  gate, 
Which  are  of  metal,  massive  and  sonorous, 

Roared  not  so  loud,  nor  so  discordant  seemed 
Tarpeia,  when  was  ta'en  from  it  the  good 
Metellus,  wherefore  meagre  it  remained.1 

At  the  first  thunder-peal  I  turned  attentive, 
And  "  Te  Deum  laudamus  "  seemed  to  hear 
In  voices  mingled  with  sweet  melody. 

Exactly  such  au  image  rendered  me 

That  which  I  heard,  as  we  are  wont  to  catch, 
When  people  singing  with  the  organ  stand ; 

For  now  we  hear,  and  now  hear  not,  the  words. 

1  Allusion  to  the  defense  by  Metellus  of  the  Roman  treasury 
on  the  Tarpeian  hill,  when  Caesar  robbed  it. 

93 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

In  Terrace  I.  are  punished  the  proud,  crushed  be- 
neath enormous  weights.  On  the  side  of  the  moun- 
tain wall  are  sculptured  wonderful  bas-reliefs,  repre- 
senting examples  of  humility ;  especially  famous  is 
the  one  which  tells  the  story  of  Trajan's  justice,  a 
story  which  led  Pope  Gregory  to  make  a  prayer  to 
God,  who  granted  it,  for  the  release  of  the  pagan 
emperor's  soul  from  hell :  — 

There  the  high  glory  of  the  Roman  Prince 
Was  chronicled,  -whose  great  beneficence 
Moved  Gregory  to  his  great  victory ; 

'T  is  of  the  Emperor  Trajan  I  am  speaking ; 
And  a  poor  widow  at  his  bridle  stood, 
In  attitude  of  weeping  and  of  grief. 

Around  about  him  seemed  it  thronged  and  full 
Of  cavaliers,  and  the  eagles  in  the  gold 
Above  them  visibly  in  the  wind  were  moving. 

The  wretched  woman  in  the  midst  of  these 

Seemed  to  be  saying :  "  Give  me  vengeance,  Lord, 
For  my  dead  son,  for  whom  my  heart  is  breaking." 

And  he  to  answer  her :  "  Now  wait  until 

I  shall  return."     And  she :  "  My  Lord,"  like  one 
In  whom  grief  is  impatient,  "  shouldst  thon  not 

Return  ?  "     And  he :  "  Who  shall  be  where  I  am 

Will  give  it  thee."     And  she :  "  Good  deed  of  others 
What  boots  it  thee,  if  thou  neglect  thine  own  ?  " 

Whence  he  :  "  Now  comfort  thee,  for  it  behoves  me 
That  I  discharge  my  duty  ere  I  move  ; 
Justice  so  wills,  and  pity  doth  retain  me." 


94 


THE   DIVINE  COMEDY 

He  who  on  no  new  thing  has  ever  looked 

Was  the  creator  of  this  visible  language, 
Novel  to  us,  for  here  it  is  not  found. 

Further  on  in  the  same  terrace  they  see  similar 
sculptures  representing  examples  of  punished  pride, 
such  as  the  fall  of  Lucifer,  and  the  destruction  of 
Niobe.  In  each  of  the  following  terraces  these  ex- 
amples of  sin  and  the  opposite  virtue  are  given, 
represented,  however,  by  various  means. 

Among  the  proud,  Dante  sees  the  miniature- 
painter,  Oderisi  of  Adubbio,  who  pronounces  those 
words  on  the  vanity  of  earthly  fame,  which  have 
been  proverbial :  — 

0  thou  vain  glory  of  the  human  powers, 

How  little  green  upon  thy  summit  lingers, 
If 't  be  not  followed  by  an  age  of  grossness  ! 

In  painting  Cimabue  thought  that  he 

Should  hold  the  field,  now  Giotto  has  the  cry, 
So  that  the  other's  fame  is  growing  dim. 

So  has  one  Guido  from  the  other  taken 

The  glory  of  our  tongue,  and  he  perchance 

IB  born,  who  from  the  nest  shall  chase  them  both. 

Naught  is  this  mundane  rumour  but  a  breath 

Of  wind,  that  comes  now  this  way  and  now  that, 
And  changes  name,  because  it  changes  side. 

Passing  through  Terrace  II.,  where  the  envious 
sit  sadly  against  the  rocky  wall,  with  their  eye-lids 
sewn  together,  and  Terrace  III.,  where  the  wrath- 
95 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

ful  are  shrouded  in  a  black,  stifling  mist,  the  poets 
reach  Terrace  IV.,  where  the  slothful  are  pun- 
ished. Here  Vergil  explains  the  apparent  paradox 
that  love  is  the  root  of  all  evil  as  well  as  good. 
Love,  he  says,  is  the  desire  for  something ;  desire 
for  those  things  which  harm  others ;  i.  e.,  love  for 
evil  produces  pride,  envy,  and  wrath.  These  are 
punished  in  the  first  three  terraces.  Insufficient 
desire  or  love  for  that  which  is  good,  i.  e.,  God,  is 
punished  in  Terrace  IV.,  that  of  the  "  slothful  in 
well-doing " ;  excessive  desire  for  merely  earthly 
things,  which  are  not  evil  in  themselves,  but  only 
in  their  excess,  produces  avarice,  gluttony  and 
licentiousness ;  these  are  punished  in  the  last  three 
terraces. 

Ascending  now  to  Terrace  V.,  Dante  sees  the 
souls  of  Pope  Adrian  and  Hugh  Capet,  founder  of 
the  long  dynasty  of  the  kings  of  France,  who  gives 
a  brief  but  admirable  summary  of  the  development 
of  the  monarchy  in  France.  As  they  are  walking 
along  this  terrace,  suddenly  a  mighty  earthquake 
shakes  the  whole  mountain,  and  while  Dante  is  still 
filled  with  amazement  and  dread  at  this  strange 
phenomenon,  they  are  overtaken  by  the  spirit  of 
Statius,  who  explains  the  cause  of  the  earthquake, 
telling  how,  when  a  soul  has  been  completely  purged 
96 


THE   DIVINE   COMEDY 

of  its  sins,  and  the  time  of  its  redemption  has  ar- 
rived, it  rises  spontaneously  from  its  place,  and  joy- 
fully makes  its  way  toward  the  heavens  above,  while 
the  whole  mountain  rejoices  with  him,  and  the  spirits 
along  the  slope  above  and  below  cry  out :  "  Glory 
to  God  in  the  highest !  " 

Statius  now  accompanies  Dante  and  Vergil  and 
all  three  mount  to  Terrace  VI.,  where  the  gluttons 
are  punished,  being  worn  to  skin  and  bone  by  hun- 
ger and  thirst,  which  are  only  increased  by  the  sight 
of  waterfalls  and  trees  laden  with  fruit.  The  last 
terrace  is  swathed  in  flames  of  fire,  within  which 
move  about  the  licentious.  Here  Dante  sees  many 
famous  poets,  and  greets  with  especial  joy  Guido 
Guinicelli  of  Bologna,  who,  he  says,  was 

The  father 

Of  me  and  of  my  betters,  who  had  ever 
Practised  the  sweet  and  gracious  rhymes  of  love. 

Through  this  wall  of  living  flame,  Dante,  too,  must 
pass  before  he  can  reach  the  summit  of  Purgatory. 
His  spirit,  indeed,  is  willing,  but  his  flesh  is  weak ; 
he  hesitates  long  before  daring  to  enter  the  fiery 
furnace.  Vergil  urges  him  on  in  the  tenderest 
manner  — 

"  My  son, 

Here  may  indeed  be  torment,  but  not  death, 
97 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Remember  thee,  remember !  and  if  I 
On  Geryon  have  safely  guided  thee 
What  shall  I  do  now  I  am  nearer  God  ? 

Believe  for  certain,  shouldst  thou  stand  a  full 
Millennium  in  the  bosom  of  this  flame, 
It  could  not  make  thee  bald  a  single  hair. 

And  if  perchance  thou  think  that  I  deceive  thee, 
Draw  near  to  it,  and  put  it  to  the  proof 
With  thine  own  hands  upon  thy  garment's  hem. 

Now  lay  aside,  now  lay  aside  all  fear, 

Turn  hitherward,  and  onward  come  securely ; " 
And  I  still  motionless,  and  'gainst  my  conscience ! 

Seeing  me  stand  still  motionless  and  stubborn, 

Somewhat  disturbed  he  said  :  "  Now  look  thon,  Soil) 
'Twixt  Beatrice  and  thee  there  is  this  walL" 

As  at  the  name  of  Thisbe  oped  his  lids 

The  dying  Pyramus,  and  gazed  upon  her, 
What  time  the  mulberry  became  vermilion, 

Even  thus,  my  obduracy  being  softened, 

I  turned  to  my  wise  Guide,  hearing  the  name 
That  in  my  memory  evermore  is  welling. 

Whereat  he  wagged  his  head,  and  said :  "  How  now  ? 
Shall  we  stay  on  this  side  ?  "  then  smiled  as  one 
Does  at  a  child  who 's  vanquished  by  an  apple. 

Then  into  the  fire  in  front  of  me  he  entered, 
Beseeching  Statius  to  come  after  me, 
Who  a  long  way  before  divided  us. 

When  I  was  in  it,  into  molten  glass 

I  would  have  cast  me  to  refresh  myself, 
So  without  measure  was  the  burning  there ! 

And  my  sweet  Father,  to  encourage  me, 
Discoursing  still  of  Beatrice  went  on, 
Saying :  "  Her  eyes  I  seem  to  see  already  1 " 


THE   DIVINE   COMEDY 

A  voice,  that  on  the  other  side  was  singing, 
Directed  us,  and  we,  attent  alone 
On  that,  came  forth  where  the  ascent  began. 
44  Venite,  benedicti  Patris  mei," 

Sounded  within  a  splendour,  which  was  there 
Such  it  o'ercame  me,  and  I  could  not  look. 

Above  this  last  terrace  stretches  out  the  lovely 
Earthly  Paradise,  but  before  the  poets  can  reach  it 
night  comes  on,  and  Dante  sleeps  on  the  steps, 
guarded  by  Vergil  and  Statius,  as  a  flock  is  watched 
over  by  its  shepherd.  The  passage  which  describes 
this  scene,  and  Dante's  vision,  is  a  beautiful  one  :  — 

And  ere  in  all  its  parts  immeasurable 

The  horizon  of  one  aspect  had  become, 
And  Night  her  boundless  dispensation  held, 

Each  of  us  of  a  stair  had  made  his  bed  ; 

Because  the  nature  of  the  mount  took  from  us 
The  power  of  climbing,  more  than  the  delight. 

Even  as  in  ruminating  passive  grow 

The  goats,  who  have  been  swift  and  venturesome 
Upon  the  mountain-tops  ere  they  were  fed, 

Hushed  in  the  shadow,  while  the  sun  is  hot, 

Watched  by  the  herdsman,  who  upon  his  staff 
Is  leaning,  and  in  leaning  tendeth  them ; 

And  as  the  shepherd,  lodging  out  of  doors, 
Passes  the  night  beside  his  quiet  flock, 
Watching  that  no  wild  beast  may  scatter  it, 

Such  at  that  hour  were  we,  all  three  of  us, 

I  like  the  goat,  and  like  the  herdsmen  they, 
Begirt  on  this  side  and  on  that  by  rocks. 
99 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Little  could  there  be  seen  of  things  without ; 
But  through  that  little  I  beheld  the  stars 
More  luminous  and  larger  than  their  wont. 

Thus  ruminating,  and  beholding  these, 

Sleep  seized  upon  me,  — sleep,  that  oftentimes 
Before  a  deed  is  done  has  tidings  of  it. 

It  was  the  hour,  I  think,  when  from  the  East 
First  on  the  mountain  Citherea  beamed, 
Who  with  the  fire  of  love  seems  always  burning  j 

Youthful  and  beautiful  in  dreams  methonght 
I  saw  a  lady  walking  in  a  meadow, 
Gathering  flowers ;  and  singing  she  was  saying : 
**  Know  whosoever  may  my  name  demand 

That  I  am  Leah,  and  go  moving  round 

My  beauteous  hands  to  make  myself  a  garland. 

To  please  me  at  the  mirror,  here  I  deck  me, 
But  never  does  my  sister  Rachel  leave 
Her  looking-glass  and  sitteth  all  day  long. 

To  see  her  beauteous  eyes  as  eager  is  she, 
As  I  am  to  adorn  me  with  my  hands ; 
Her,  seeing,  and  me,  doing  satisfies." 

And  now  before  the  antelucan  splendours 

That  unto  pilgrims  the  more  grateful  rise, 
As  home-returning,  less  remote  they  lodge, 

The  darkness  fled  away  on  every  side, 

And  slumber  with  it ;  whereupon  I  rose, 
Seeing  already  the  great  Masters  risen. 
**  That  apple  sweet,  which  through  so  many  branches 
The  care  of  mortals  goeth  in  pursuit  of, 
To-day  shall  put  in  peace  thy  hungerings." 

Speaking  to  me,  Virgilius  of  such  words 

As  these  made  use  ;  and  never  were  there  guerdon* 
That  could  in  pleasantness  compare  with  these. 


100 


THE   DIVINE   COMEDY 

Such  longing  upon  longing  came  upon  me 

To  be  above,  that  at  each  step  thereafter 

For  flight  I  felt  in  me  the  pinions  growing. 
When  underneath  us  was  the  stairway  all 

Run  o'er,  and  we  were  on  the  highest  step, 

Virgilius  fastened  upon  me  his  eyes, 
And  said  :  "  The  temporal  fire  and  the  eternal, 

Son,  thou  hast  seen,  and  to  a  place  art  come 

Where  of  myself  no  farther  I  discern. 
By  intellect  and  art  I  here  have  brought  tliee  ; 

Take  thine  own  pleasure  for  thy  guide  henceforth ; 

Beyond  the  steep  ways  and  the  narrow  art  thou. 
Behold  the  sun,  that  shines  upon  thy  forehead ; 

Behold  the  grass,  the  flowerets,  and  the  shrubs 

Which  of  itself  alone  this  land  produces. 
Until  rejoicing  come  the  beauteous  eyes 

Which  weeping  caused  me  to  come  unto  thee, 

Thou  canst  sit  down,  and  thou  canst  walk  among  them. 
Expect  no  more  or  word  or  sign  from  me ; 

Free  and  upright  and  sound  is  thy  free-will, 

And  error  were  it  not  to  do  its  bidding ; 
Thee  o'er  thyself  I  therefore  crown  and  mitre ! " 


Thus  Dante,  having  been  led  by  reason  (repre- 
sented by  Vergil)  to  purge  himself  of  sin  and  vice,  is 
now  to  put  himself  under  the  guidance  of  heavenly 
wisdom  (represented  by  Beatrice),  by  whom  he  is 
to  visit  the  homes  of  the  blessed.  First,  however, 
he  lingers  in  the  Earthly  Paradise  which  forms  the 
summit  of  Purgatory,  and  sees  strange  sights  before 
Beatrice  reveals  herself  to  him. 
101 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

The  descriptions  of  the  landscape  in  the  Earthly 
Paradise  are  of  surpassing  beauty,  and  choice  of 
quotation  is  exceedingly  difficult.  Only  a  few 
passages  can  be  given  here :  — 

Eager  already  to  search  in  and  round 

The  heavenly  forest,  dense  and  living-green, 
Which  tempered  to  the  eyes  the  new-born  day, 

Withouteii  more  delay  I  left  the  hank, 

Taking  the  level  country,  slowly,  slowly, 

Over  the  soil  that  everywhere  breathes  fragrance. 

A  softly  breathing  air,  that  no  mutation 

Had  in  itself,  upon  the  forehead  smote  me 
No  heavier  blow  than  of  a  gentle  wind, 

Whereat  the  branches,  lightly  tremulous, 

Did  all  of  them  bow  downward  toward  that  side 
Where  its  first  shadow  casts  the  Holy  Mountain, 

Yet  not  from  their  upright  direction  swayed, 
So  that  the  little  birds  upon  their  tops 
Should  leave  the  practice  of  each  art  of  theirs ; 

But  with  full  ravishment  the  hours  of  prime, 

Singing,  received  they  in  the  midst  of  leaves, 
That  ever  bore  a  burden  to  their  rhymes, 

Such  as  from  branch  to  branch  goes  gathering  on 
Through  the  pine  forest  on  the  shore  of  Chiassi,1 
When  Eolus  unlooses  the  Sirocco. 

Already  my  slow  steps  had  carried  me 
Into  the  ancient  wood  so  far,  that  I 
Could  not  perceive  where  I  had  entered  it. 

And  lo  I  my  further  course  a  stream  cut  off, 

Which  tow'rd  the  left  hand  with  its  little  waves 
Bent  down  the  grass  that  on  its  margin  sprang. 

1  On  the  seashore,  near  Ravenna. 
102 


THE   DIVINE   COMEDY 

All  waters  that  on  earth  most  limpid  are 

Would  seem  to  have  within  themselves  some  mixture 
Compared  with  that  which  nothing  doth  conceal, 

Although  it  moves  on  with  a  brown,  brown  current 
Under  the  shade  perpetual,  that  never 
Ray  of  the  sun  lets  in,  nor  of  the  moon. 

With  feet  I  stayed,  and  with  mine  eyes  I  passed 
Beyond  the  rivulet,  to  look  upon 
The  great  variety  of  the  fresh  May. 

And  there  appeared  to  me  (even  as  appears 
Suddenly  something  that  doth  turn  aside 
Through  very  wonder  every  other  thought) 

A  lady  all  alone,  who  went  along 

Singing  and  culling  floweret  after  floweret, 
With  which  her  pathway  was  all  painted  over. 
*  Ah,  beauteous  lady,  who  in  rays  of  love 

Dost  warm  thyself,  if  I  may  trust  to  looks, 
Which  the  heart's  witnesses  are  wont  to  be, 

May  the  desire  come  unto  thee  to  draw 

Near  to  this  river's  bank,"  I  said  to  her, 

"  So  much  that  I  may  hear  what  thou  art  singing. 

Thou  makest  me  remember  where  and  what 
Proserpina  that  moment  was  when  lost 
Her  mother  her,  and  she  herself  the  Spring." 

As  turns  herself,  with  feet  together  pressed 
And  to  the  ground,  a  lady  who  is  dancing, 
And  hardly  puts  one  foot  before  the  other, 

On  the  vermilion  and  the  yellow  flowerets 

She  turned  towards  me,  not  in  other  wise 
Than  maiden  who  her  modest  eyes  casts  down ; 

And  my  entreaties  made  to  be  content, 

So  near  approaching,  that  the  dulcet  sound 
Came  unto  me  together  with  its  meaning. 

103 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Aa  soon  as  she  was  where  the  grasses  are 

Bathed  by  the  waters  of  the  beauteous  river, 
To  lift  her  eyes  she  granted  me  the  boon. 

I  do  not  think  there  shone  so  great  a  light 
Under  the  lids  of  Venus,  when  transfixed 
By  her  own  son,  beyond  his  usual  custom  I 

Erect  upon  the  other  bank  she  smiled, 

Bearing  full  many  colours  in  her  hands, 
Which  that  high  land  produces  without  seed. 

Apart  three  paces  did  the  river  make  us ; 

But  Hellespont,  where  Xerxes  passed  across, 
(A  curb  still  to  all  human  arrogance,) 

More  hatred  from  Leander  did  not  suffer 
For  rolling  between  Sestos  and  Abydos, 
Than  that  from  me,  because  it  oped  not  then. 
"Ye  are  new-comers;  and  because  I  smile," 
Began  she,  "  peradventure,  in  this  place 
Elect  to  human  nature  for  its  nest, 

Some  apprehension  keeps  yon  marvelling ; 
But  the  psalm  Ddectasti  giveth  light l 
Which  has  the  power  to  uncloud  your  intellect." 

Singing  like  nnto  an  enamoured  lady 

She,  with  the  ending  of  her  words,  continued : 
"  Beati  quorum  tecta  sunt  peccata." 

And  even  as  Nymphs,  that  wandered  all  alone 
Among  the  sylvan  shadows,  sedulous 
One  to  avoid  and  one  to  see  the  sun, 

She  then  against  the  stream  moved  onward,  going 
Along  the  bank,  and  I  abreast  of  her, 
Her  little  steps  with  little  steps  attending. 

1  Psalm  xcii.  4  :  "  For  thou,  Lord,  hast  made  me  glad  through 
thy  work." 

104 


THE   DIVINE   COMEDY 

Between  her  steps  and  mine  were  not  a  hundred, 
When  equally  the  margins  gave  a  turn, 
In  such  a  way,  that  to  the  East  I  faced. 

Nor  even  thus  our  way  continued  far 

Before  the  lady  wholly  turned  herself 

Unto  me,  saying,  "  Brother,  look  and  listen !  n 

And  lo !  a  sudden  lustre  ran  across 

On  every  side  athwart  the  spacious  forest, 
Such  that  it  made  me  doubt  if  it  were  lightning. 

But  since  the  lightning  ceases  as  it  comes, 

And  that  continuing  brightened  more  and  more, 
Within  my  thought  I  said,  "  What  thing  is  this  ?  " 

And  a  delicious  melody  there  ran 

Along  the  luminous  air,  whence  holy  zeal 
Made  me  rebuke  the  hardihood  of  Eve ; 

For  there  where  earth  and  heaven  obedient  were, 
The  woman  only,  and  but  just  created, 
Could  not  endure  to  stay  'neath  any  veil ; 

Underneath  which  had  she  devoutly  stayed, 
I  sooner  should  have  tasted  those  delights 
Ineffable,  and  for  a  longer  time. 

While  'mid  such  manifold  first-fruits  I  walked 
Of  the  eternal  pleasure  all  enrapt, 
And  still  solicitous  of  more  delights, 

In  front  of  us  like  an  enkindled  fire 

Became  the  air  beneath  the  verdant  boughs, 
And  the  sweet  sound  as  singing  now  was  heard. 

The  poet  now  beholds  a  mystical  procession  of 

strange  and  wonderful  beasts,  venerable  old  men, 

beautiful  maidens  dressed  in  red,  white,  green,  and 

purple,  all  accompanying  a  chariot  drawn  by  a  grif- 

105 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

fin  and  representing  the  Church  of  Christ.    On  the 
chariot  itself  stands  Beatrice. 

And  one  of  them,  as  if  by  Heaven  commissioned, 
Singing,  "  Veni,  sponsa,  de  Libano  " 
Shouted  three  times,  and  all  the  others  after. 

Even  as  the  Blessed  at  the  final  summons 

Shall  rise  up  quickened  each  one  from  his  cavern, 
Uplifting  light  the  reinvested  flesh, 

So  upon  that  celestial  chariot 

A  hundred  rose  ad  vocem  tanti  sents, 
Ministers  and  messengers  of  life  eternal. 

They  all  were  saying,  "  Benedictus  qui  venis" 

And,  scattering  flowers  above  and  round  about, 
"  Manibus  o  date  lilia  plenis" 

Ere  now  have  I  beheld,  as  day  began, 

The  eastern  hemisphere  all  tinged  with  rose, 
And  the  other  heaven  with  fair  serene  adorned ; 

And  the  sun's  face,  uprising,  overshadowed 
So  that  by  tempering  influence  of  vapours 
For  a  long  interval  the  eye  sustained  it ; 

Thus  in  the  bosom  of  a  cloud  of  flowers 

Which  from  those  hands  angelical  ascended, 
And  downward  fell  again  inside  and  out, 

Over  her  snow-white  veil  with  olive  cinct 
Appeared  a  lady  under  a  green  mantle, 
Vested  in  colour  of  the  living  flame. 

And  my  own  spirit,  that  already  now 

So  long  a  time  had  been,  that  in  her  presence 
Trembling  with  awe  it  had  not  stood  abashed, 

Without  more  knowledge  having  by  mine  eyes, 

Through  occult  virtue  that  from  her  proceeded 
Of  ancient  love  the  mighty  influence  felt. 

106 


THE   DIVINE  COMEDY 

As  soon  as  on  my  vision  smote  the  power 

Sublime,  that  had  already  pierced  me  through 
Ere  from  my  boyhood  I  had  yet  come  forth, 

To  the  left  hand  I  turned  with  that  reliance 

With  which  the  little  child  runs  to  his  mother, 
When  he  has  fear,  or  when  he  is  afflicted, 

To  say  unto  Virgilius  :  "  Not  a  drachm 

Of  blood  remains  in  me,  that  does  not  tremble  ; 
I  know  the  traces  of  the  ancient  flame." 

After  Beatrice  has  rebuked  Dante  for  his  way- 
ward conduct  in  life,  and  he  has  repented  in  bitter 
tears,  he  is  led  by  Matilda  to  the  streams  of  Lethe 
and  Eunoe,  and  bathing  therein,  is  made  "  pure  and 
apt  for  mounting  to  the  stars. " 

As  we  have  already  seen,  the  Paradise  of  Dante  is 
composed  of  nine  spheres  enclosed  by  the  Empyrean, 
which  itself  is  boundless,  and  is  the  seat  of  the  God- 
head, surrounded  by  the  celestial  hierarchy  of  sera- 
phim, cherubim,  thrones,  dominions,  virtues,  powers, 
principalities,  archangels,  and  angels.  The  Blessed 
are  likewise  here,  seated  on  thrones  which  are  ar- 
ranged in  the  form  of  a  rose,  surrounding  a  lake  of 
liquid  light,  in  which  they,  gazing,  see  all  the  full- 
ness of  the  glory  of  God.  These  souls,  however,  by 
a  mystical  virtue  of  ubiquity,  are  likewise  seen 
by  Dante  in  the  various  heavens  through  which  he, 
with  Beatrice,  passes,  manif  esting  themselves  to  him 
in  various  forms  of  light,  flames,  flashes,  sparkles,  or 
107 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

shapes  made  of  fiery  particles.  The  souls  of  the 
Blessed  which  are  thus  distributed  over  the  nine 
heavens  have  varying  degrees  of  felicity.  Thus,  in 
the  first  heaven,  —  that  of  the  moon,  —  Piccarda, 
sister  of  Corso  Donati,  appears  to  Dante,  faint  and 
dim  in  that  tenuous  atmosphere,  as  a  "  pearl  set  on 
a  white  forehead,"  and  tells  him  how,  having  been 
forced  by  her  brother  to  break  her  vows  as  a  nun, 
and  not  having  shown  tenacity  of  purpose  in  oppos- 
ing his  tyranny,  she  now  occupies  the  lowest  sphere 
of  Paradise.  Yet  this  she  does  with  perfect  content 
and  happiness,  since  such  is  the  will  of  God,  for,  she 
says,  to  quote  that  one  incomparable  line,  as  Mat- 
thew Arnold  calls  it :  — 

"  In  la  sua  voluntade  e  nostra  pace."  l 

Rising  from  heaven  to  heaven  with  Beatrice, 
Dante  passes  through  Mercury  and  Venus,  —  in  the 
former  of  which  are  the  souls  of  Christians  who 
sought  with  overmuch  zeal  for  earthly  glory,  and 
in  the  latter  those  who  were  inclined  too  much  to 
mere  human  love,  - —  and  finally  reaches  the  sun, 
where  he  sees  the  great  doctors  of  theology.  Here 
St.  Thomas  Aquinas,  a  Dominican  himself,  tells  in 
beautiful  language  the  story  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi 
and  the  establishment  of  his  order ;  while  the  Fran- 

1  In  His  will  is  our  peace. 
108 


THE   DIVINE   COMEDY 

ciscan,  St.  Bonaventura,  with  the  same  exquisite 
courtesy,  tells  the  story  of  St.  Dominic. 

In  Mars,  Dante  sees  the  souls  of  Christian  mar- 
tyrs and  warriors,  many  of  whom  form  themselves 
before  the  eyes  of  the  poet  into  a  wonderful  cross 
of  roseate  light,  flashing  in  countless  splendors. 
Here,  as  we  have  already  seen,  he  meets  and  con- 
verses with  his  ancestor,  Cacciaguida.  In  Saturn 
the  poet  beholds  a  ladder  of  light,  with  spirits 
mounting  and  descending  upon  it,  a  ladder  such  as 

"  Crowded  with  angels  unnumbered 
By  Jacob  was  seen  as  he  slumbered 
Alone  in  the  desert  at  night." 

Here  Peter  Damian  tells  of  the  mystery  of  pre- 
destination, and  St.  Benedict  describes  the  found- 
ing of  his  order  at  Montecassino. 

In  the  heaven  of  the  fixed  stars  Dante  beholds 
the  triumph  of  Christ :  — 

Even  as  a  bird,  'mid  the  beloved  leaves, 
Quiet  upon  the  nest  of  her  sweet  brood 
Throughout  the  night,  that  hideth  all  things  from  us, 

Who,  that  she  may  behold  their  longed-for  looks 
And  find  the  food  wherewith  to  nourish  them, 
In  which,  to  her,  grave  labours  grateful  are, 

Anticipates  the  time  on  open  spray 

And  with  an  ardent  longing  waits  the  sun, 
Gazing  intent  as  soon  as  breaks  the  dawn : 
109 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Even  thus  my  Lady  standing  was,  erect 

And  vigilant,  turned  round  towards  the  zone 
Underneath  which  the  sun  displays  less  haste ; 

So  that  beholding  her  distraught  and  wistful, 
Such  I  became  as  he  is  who  desiring 
For  something  yearns,  and  hoping  is  appeased. 

But  brief  the  space  from  one  When  to  the  other ; 
Of  my  awaiting,  say  I,  and  the  seeing 
The  welkin  grow  resplendent  more  and  more. 

And  Beatrice  exclaimed :  "  Behold  the  hosts 

Of  Christ's  triumphal  march,  and  all  the  fruit 
Harvested  by  the  rolling  of  these  spheres !  " 

It  seemed  to  me  her  face  was  all  aflame ; 
And  eyes  she  had  so  full  of  ecstasy 
That  I  must  needs  pass  on  without  describing. 

As  when  in  nights  serene  of  the  full  moon 

Smiles  Trivia 1  among  the  nymphs  eternal 
Who  paint  the  firmament  through  all  its  gulfs, 

Saw  I,  above  the  myriads  of  lamps, 

A  Sun  2  that  one  and  all  of  them  enkindled, 
E'en  as  our  own  doth  the  supernal  sights, 

And  through  the  living  light  transparent  shone 
The  lucent  substance  so  intensely  clear 
Into  my  sight,  that  I  sustained  it  not. 


Dazzled  as  he  is  Dante  is  encouraged  to  look 
again  at  the  glorious  vision, — 

and  I,  who  to  her  counsels 
Was  wholly  ready,  once  again  betook  me 
Unto  the  battle  of  the  feeble  brows. 

1  The  moon.  2  Christ. 

110 


THE   DIVINE   COMEDY 

As  in  the  sunshine,  that  unsullied  streams 

Through  fractured  cloud,  ere  now  a  meadow  of  flowers 
Mine  eyes  with  shadow  covered  o'er  have  seen, 

So  troops  of  splendours  manifold  I  saw 

Illumined  from  above  with  burning  rays, 
Beholding  not  the  source  of  the  effulgence. 

0  power  benignant  that  dost  so  imprint  them  !  l 

Thou  didst  exalt  thyself  to  give  more  scope 
There  to  mine  eyes  that  were  not  strong  enough. 

The  name  of  that  fair  flower  2  I  e'er  invoke 
Morning  and  evening  utterly  enthralled 
My  soul  to  gaze  upon  the  greater  fire. 

And  when  in  both  mine  eyes  depicted  were 
The  glory  and  greatness  of  the  living  star 
Which  there  excelleth,  as  it  here  excelled, 

Athwart  the  heavens  a  little  torch  descended  8 
Formed  in  a  circle  like  a  coronal, 
And  cinctured  it,  and  whirled  itself  about  it. 

Whatever  melody  roost  sweetly  soundeth 

On  earth,  and  to  itself  most  draws  the  soul, 
Would  seem  a  cloud  that,  rent  asunder,  thunders, 

Compared  unto  the  sounding  of  that  lyre 

Wherewith  was  crowned  the  sapphire  beautiful, 
Which  gives  the  clearest  heaven  its  sapphire  hue. 
"  I  am  Angelic  Love,  that  circle  round 

The  joy  sublime  which  breaths  from  out  the  womb 
That  was  the  hostelry  of  our  Desire  ; 

And  I  shall  circle,  Lady  of  Heaven,  while 

Thou  followest  thy  Son,  and  mak'st  diviner 

The  sphere  supreme,  because  thou  enterest  there." 

1  Christ  had  re-ascended.  3  The  Virgin  Mary. 

8  The  Angel  Gabriel. 

Ill 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Thus  did  the  circulated  melody 

Seal  itself  up  ;  and  all  the  other  lights 
Were  making  to  resound  the  name  of  Mary. 

The  regal  mantle  of  the  volumes  all J 

Of  that  world,  which  most  fervid  is  and  living 
With  breath  of  God  and  with  his  works  and  ways, 

Extended  over  us  its  inner  border, 

So  very  distant  that  the  semblance  of  it 
There  where  I  was  not  yet  appeared  to  me. 

Therefore  mine  eyes  did  not  possess  the  power 
Of  following  the  incoronated  flame, 
Which  mounted  upward  near  to  its  own  seed.2 

And  as  a  little  child,  that  towards  its  mother 

Stretches  its  arms,  when  it  the  milk  has  taken, 
Through  impulse  kindled  into  outward  flame, 

Each  of  those  gleams  of  whiteness  upward  reached 
So  with  its  summit,  that  the  deep  affection 
They  had  for  Mary  was  revealed  to  me. 

Thereafter  they  remained  there  in  my  sight, 
Regina  cadi  singing  with  such  sweetness, 
That  ne'er  from  me  has  the  delight  departed. 

After  the  passing  away  of  this  glorious  vision 
Dante  is  examined  as  to  his  faith  by  St.  Peter, 
his  hope  by  St.  James,  and  his  love  by  St.  John ; 
then  being  found  worthy  of  being  admitted  into 
the  presence  of  God,  he  rises  to  the  Empyrean,  be- 
holds the  Blessed  Rose,  where  are  seated  the  saints 
of  all  ages,  and  finally  catches  an  instantaneous 
glimpse  of  the  glory  and  mystery  of  the  Trinity. 

1  The  Primum  Mobile. 

2  The  Virgin  Mary  ascending  to  her  Son. 

112 


THE  DIVINE   COMEDY 

In  this  supreme  vision  his  desires  find  full  fruition, 
and  his  spirit,  overcome  by  the  overwhelming  glory 
of  the  Godhead,  fails  him,  and  thus  his  vision  comes 
to  an  end :  — 

Here  vigour  failed  the  lofty  fantasy  : 

But  now  was  turning  ray  desire  and  will, 
Even  as  a  wheel  that  equally  is  moved, 

The  Love  which  moves  the  sun  and  the  other  stars. 

Such  is  the  "  Divine  Comedy  "  of  Dante,  which 
has  won  undying  admiration  in  the  realm  of  litera- 
ture from  the  poet's  own  time  down  to  the  present. 
It  would  lead  us  too  far  to  go  into  a  detailed  analysis 
of  its  greatness  here,  but  with  one  consent  men  like 
Carlyle,  Ruskin,  Gladstone,  Browning,  and  Tenny- 
son in  England ;  Tholuck,  Witte,  and  Kraus,  in 
Germany  ;  Longfellow  and  Lowell  in  America,  at- 
tribute the  title  of  supreme  genius  to  this  poem. 

The  "Divine  Comedy"  is  universal  in  its  com- 
pass, containing  the  elements  of  dramatic,  epic,  and 
lyric  poetry ;  full  of  sublime  imaginations,  touch- 
ing and  pathetic  episodes,  and  not  deficient  even  in 
humor,  grotesque  at  times,  but  often  of  a  strangely 
sweet  and  tender  nature.  The  language  is  astonish- 
ingly simple  and  concise,  and  invariably  represents 
the  thought  of  the  poet  with  absolute  truth  and  fidel- 
ity. We  find  in  this  wonderfully  condensed  poem 
113 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

no  unmeaning  epithets,  no  mere  arabesques  of  style 
such  as  adorn  the  lesser  thoughts  of  lesser  men. 
Each  word  is  in  its  right  place.  The  metaphors  of 
Dante  are  especially  famous,  for  the  most  part 
simple  and  drawn  from  everyday  lif e,  yet  unexcelled 
in  beauty  and  especially  in  their  perfect  and  com- 
plete adaptation  to  the  point  they  are  meant  to 
illustrate.  Such  are  those  of  the  old  tailor  thread- 
ing his  needle,  the  sheep  leaving  the  fold  in  hud- 
dling groups,  the  fish  disappearing  from  view  in  the 
depths  of  clear  water,  and  the  pearl  faintly  discern- 
ible on  a  white  forehead. 

Above  all,  the  personality  of  the  author  lends  a 
dramatic  interest  to  the  poem  and  exercises  a  fas- 
cination on  the  reader.  As  Lowell  says,  "  The 
man  behind  the  verse  is  far  greater  than  the  verse 
itself." *  In  the  midst  of  the  wonderful  landscapes 
of  his  own  creation,  dark  and  terrible,  soft  and 
beautiful,  he  walks  among  the  men  and  women  of 
all  ages ;  he  talks  to  them  and  hears  their  stories 
of  half -forgotten  crimes  and  tragedies ;  he  brands 
them  with  infamy  or  sets  upon  their  brows  the 
wreath  of  praise.  It  is  his  love  for  Beatrice  — 
now  become  the  symbol  of  spiritual  life  —  which 

1  Carducci  says  Dante  is  a  "  most  great  poet  because  he  is  a 
great  man,  and  a  great  man  because  he  had  a  great  conscience." 
114 


THE  DIVINE  COMEDY 

leads  him  through  the  realms  of  sin  over  the  steep 
rocks  of  Purgatory  to  the  glory  ineffable  of  God. 

Completely  a  man  of  his  age,  Dante  incorporates 
into  the  "  Divine  Comedy  "  all  its  science  and  learn- 
ing, its  theology,  philosophy,  astronomy,  its  use  of 
classical  authors,  and  its  way  of  regarding  the  pres- 
ent life  as  insignificant  in  comparison  with  the  life 
to  come.  All  these  things  have  still  a  distinct  me- 
diaeval stamp.  Yet  Dante  is  at  the  same  time  the 
most  original  of  poets.  It  is  his  mighty  individu- 
ality which,  rising  above  the  conventionality  of  his 
age  and  country,  has  made  him  a  world-poet,  as 
true  to-day  as  ever  in  his  depiction  of  the  human 
heart  in  all  its  sin  and  sorrow,  virtue  and  vice,  in 
its  love  and  hate  and  its  inextinguishable  aspira- 
tion toward  a  better  and  happier  existence  in  the 
world  beyond  the  grave.1 

1  No  poet  in  Italian  literature  is  better  adapted  to  special  study 
than  Dante,  nor  is  any  other  so  profitable.  The  material  is  abundant. 
The  reader  should  provide  himself  with  Scartazzini's  Companion 
to  Dante,  translated  by  A.  J.  Butler,  or  Symonds'  Introduction  to 
Dante.  These  will  furnish  all  necessary  facts  concerning  the  life 
and  works  of  the  poet.  It  must  be  remembered  that  the  Divine 
Comedy  is  a  difficult  poem,  and  that  it  takes  many  readings  and 
much  study  to  master  it.  It  will  be  best  to  begin  by  reading 
Maria  F.  Rossetti's  A  Shadow  of  Dante,  which  gives  a  general 
outline  of  the  story  with  copious  extracts.  Then  one  of  the 
numerous  translations  should  be  taken  up  and  studied  carefully, 
115 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

canto  by  canto  —  Gary's,  Longfellow's,  and  Norton's  translations 
(the  latter  in  prose)  are  the  best.  An  edition  of  Gary's  translation 
has  been  made  by  the  writer  of  this  book  (published  by  T.  Y. 
Crowell  &  Co.),  with  special  reference  to  the  general  reader.  It 
contains  an  introduction,  Rossetti's  translation  of  the  New  Life, 
and  a  revised  reprint  of  Gary's  version  of  the  Divine  Comedy, 
furnished  with  a  popular  commentary  in  the  form  of  foot  notes. 
The  number  of  essays  and  critical  estimates  of  Dante  in  English 
is  legion ;  perhaps  the  three  best  are  those  by  Carlyle  (in  Heroes 
and  Hero  Worship),  Dean  Church,  and  Lowell.  Two  excellent 
books  recently  published  are  Aids  to  the  Study  of  Dante,  and  The 
Teachings  of  Dante,  both  by  Charles  A.  Dinsmore,  and  both 
published  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


116 


IV 
PETEAECH  AND  BOCCACCIO 


is  hard  for  people  to-day  to  realize  the  enor- 
mous difference  between  the  mediaeval  and  modern 
world.  The  former  was  full  of  superstition  and 
naive  belief  ;  authority  reigned  supreme  ;  in  reli- 
gion no  one  dreamed  of  questioning  the  decrees  of 
church  and  pope  ;  in  philosophy  a  question  was 
settled  by  a  quotation  from  Aristotle  or  his  scholas- 
tic representative,  St.  Thomas  Aquinas.  This  same 
blind  following  of  authority  was  exemplified  in  art 
—  painters  imitated  slavishly  their  predecessors, 
and  up  to  the  appearance  of  Cimabue  and  Giotto 
there  was  no  thought  of  improving  the  stiff  con- 
ventionalities of  the  Byzantine  artists.  In  scholar- 
ship, criticism  (&.  e.,  individual  judgment)  was 
unknown  ;  in  science,  all  such  old-world  fables  as 
those  which  told  of  the  mandragora,  dragons, 
phenix,  and  unicorn  were  devoutly  received  as  true 
zoology,  while  the  Ptolemaic  system  of  astronomy 
was  unquestioned.  The  idea  of  progress  was 
utterly  unknown;  the  world  had  been  created 
117 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

exactly  as  it  was,  and  would  remain  so  till  the  com- 
ing of  Christ,  when  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth 
would  be  formed.  So,  in  the  political  and  social 
world,  the  thought  that  the  existing  state  of  things 
could  change  would  have  seemed  absurd.  It  needs 
no  words  of  mine  to  demonstrate  the  vast  differ- 
ence between  these  conceptions  and  the  present 
world,  with  its  idea  of  illimitable  progress,  its  criti- 
cism of  all  things  high  and  low,  its  denial  that 
authority  in  church  and  state  is  just,  simply  because 
it  is  old ;  its  eager  acceptation  of  innovations ;  its 
cultivation  of  the  individual  in  all  departments  of 
life  ;  to  say  nothing  of  the  vast  field  opened  up  by 
the  discoveries  of  positive  science. 

Dante  stands  at  the  end  of  the  old  order  of  things, 
rising  like  a  mighty  mountain  peak  over  the  dead 
plain  of  mediaeval  mediocrity.  He  is  not  an  inno- 
vator ;  he  does  not  inaugurate  a  new  period  of 
civilization.  When  he  died  he  left  no  school  of 
followers  to  carry  on  his  work ;  he  closed  an 
epoch  rather  than  opened  one.  It  is  true  that 
for  a  hundred  years  or  more  men  did  imitate 
his  "  Divine  Comedy,"  but  only  in  the  outward 
form,  neglecting  the  poetical  and  a3sthetical  side, 
for  which  indeed  Dante's  contemporaries  had  little 
or  no  appreciation.  It  is  only  in  the  nineteenth 
118 


PETRARCH  AND   BOCCACCIO 

century  that  Dante  has  become  a  power  in  Italy 
as  voicing  the  universal  desire  for  a  united 
fatherland. 

The  man  who  begins  the  mighty  movement  of 
the  Renaissance,  from  which  modern  civilization 
takes  its  rise,  is  Francesco  Petrarch.  It  is  strange 
to  think  that  he,  so  utterly  different  in  mental  at- 
titude from  Dante,  was  seventeen  years  old  when 
the  latter  died.  Yet  the  change  which  he  repre- 
sents had  been  slowly  prepared  by  his  predecessors. 
As  we  have  seen,  the  study  of  the  Latin  language 
and  authors  had  never  fully  died  out  in  the  Middle 
Ages ;  especially  in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  cen- 
turies the  classic  writers,  Vergil,  Ovid,  Statius,  Livy, 
were  read  more  and  more,  not,  however,  as  examples 
of  literary  excellence,  or  as  revealing  the  culture  of 
antiquity,  but  as  mines  of  practical  wisdom,  or  as 
supplying  quotations  and  examples  for  philosophical 
and  theological  discussions.  The  classic  writers 
were  made  to  fit  in  with  mediaeval  ways  of  think- 
ing, and  thus  subordinated  to  the  then  existing 
state  of  civilization.  With  Petrarch,  however,  comes 
a  complete  change  in  all  these  respects.  For  him 
the  classic  writers  were  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  elegant 
form ;  he  strove  to  penetrate  into  their  spirit,  to 
appreciate  fully  the  peculiar  excellence  of  each  one ; 
119 


THE   GEEAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

and  above  all  to  clear  antiquity  from  its  barnacle- 
like  covering  of  mediaeval  traditions  and  supersti- 
tions and  to  present  Roman  civilization,  its  learn- 
ing, science,  and  art,  as  it  was.  To  him  the  Middle 
Ages  were  a  period  of  degradation,  which  had  long 
hidden  from  view  the  past  glories  of  Rome  ;  and  he 
now,  for  the  first  time  in  history,  broke  away  from 
the  present  and  immediate  past,  and  turned  his 
eyes  back  to  ancient  times.  In  so  doing  he  founded 
the  Renaissance  in  Italy,  and  laid  down  the  lines  in 
which  all  subsequent  students  of  classical  antiq- 
uity were  to  follow.  In  all  these  respects  Petrarch 
is  justly  regarded,  not  only  as  the  founder  of  mod- 
ern classical  scholarship,  but  as  the  founder  of 
modern  civilization  as  well.  He  has  been  referred  to 
by  more  than  one  historian  as  the  Columbus  of  a 
new  intellectual  world. 

The  life  of  Petrarch  is  intensely  interesting,  and 
the  difficulty  hi  giving  an  outline  of  it  consists  not 
in  the  absence  of  well-ascertained  facts,  as  in  the 
case  of  Dante,  but  in  an  embarrassment  of  riches. 
For  we  know  more  of  the  details  of  Petrarch's  life 
than  we  do  of  any  other  writer  who  lived  before  the 
Renaissance. 

Francesco  Petrarch  was  born  hi  1304  at  Arezzo, 
whither  his  father,  a  prominent  lawyer  of  Florence, 
120 


PETRARCH 


PETRARCH  AND   BOCCACCIO 

had  gone  on  being  exiled  in  1302,  at  the  same  time 
as  Dante.  After  moving  about  some  time  in  Italy, 
the  family  finally  settled  at  Avignon,  in  Southern 
France,  then  famous  as  the  seat  of  the  Roman 
papacy  during  the  so-called  Babylonian  captivity. 
From  1315  to  1319  Francesco  was  sent  to  school  at 
the  neighboring  town  of  C^arpentras ;  in  1319  he 
went  to  the  University  of  Montpellier  to  study  law, 
and  in  1323  went  to  the  University  of  Bologna.  At 
the  university,  however,  he  neglected  law  for  the 
classic  writers,  and  he  tells  us  how  one  day  his  father 
appeared  and  burnt  all  his  Latin  books,  with  the 
exception  of  Vergil  and  Cicero's  "  Rhetoric,"  which 
by  means  of  tears  and  entreaties  he  succeeded  in  sav- 
ing from  the  flames. 

After  the  death  of  his  parents,  in  1326,  Petrarch 
settled  down  in  Avignon  and  devoted  himself  to  his 
favorite  studies.  As  he  was  without  means  he  en- 
tered the  church,  and  henceforth  was  relieved  of  all 
anxiety  in  regard  to  money.  From  this  time  on  his 
life  was  spent  in  study,  in  the  collection  of  a  library, 
in  writing  books,  in  travel,  and  in  visits  to  his 
friends.  Petrarch  was  very  fond  of  traveling,  and 
his  letters  abound  with  interesting  descriptions  of 
the  places  he  had  seen.  Yet,  in  spite  of  this  passion 
for  travel,  he  loved  also  the  quiet  and  tranquil  exia- 
121 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

tence  of  country  life.  Here  he  could  indulge  to  his 
heart's  content  his  love  for  nature,  the  beauty  of 
which  he  was  practically  the  first  to  describe  in 
sympathetic  language.  It  was  to  satisfy  this  love 
for  nature  and  the  "  quiet  life,"  that  Petrarch  bought 
a  small  property  in  Vaucluse,  near  Avignon,  and 
here  he  never  failed  to  return  from  time  to  time  dur- 
ing all  his  later  life,  when  tired  of  travel,  weighed 
down  by  care,  or  depressed  by  the  loss  of  friends 
and  the  "  creeping  steps  of  age." 

Petrarch  seems  to  have  had  a  peculiar  faculty  for 
making  friends ;  he  was  loved  and  admired  by  high 
and  low.  Among  these  numerous  friends  are  worthy 
of  especial  mention  the  powerful  Colonna  family, 
father  and  two  sons,  who  played  so  important  a  part 
in  the  history  of  Italy ;  King  Robert  of  Naples ;  the 
Emperor  Charles  IV.,  who  wished  to  have  Petrarch 
accompany  him  to  Germany  ;  King  John  of  France, 
who  wished  to  retain  him  in  Paris ;  Pope  Urban 
IV.,  who  offered  him  the  position  of  papal  secretary. 
There  were  scores  of  others  of  humbler  rank,  among 
them  Boccaccio,  his  faithful  admirer  and  life-long 
friend.  Not  only  kings  and  princes  lavished  honors 
on  Petrarch,  but  cities  as  well ;  Florence  offered  to 
restore  his  father's  property  and  make  him  profes- 
sor at  the  university  if  he  would  live  there ;  Venice 
122 


PETRARCH   AND   BOCCACCIO 

gave  him  a  palace  in  return  for  his  library,  and 
in  1345_  the  cities  of  Paris  and  Rome,  at  the  same 
time,  invited  him  to  receive  the  laurel  crown  of 
poet. 

After  due  deliberation  Petrarch  accepted  the  in- 
vitation of  Rome,  and  on  Easter  Sunday,  1340,  in 
the  presence  of  an  immense  company  of  people,  he 
was  crowned  at  the  capitol,  amid  the  blare  of  trum- 
pets and  the  acclamation  of  the  assembled  multi- 
tudes. This  scene  may  be  considered  as  the  climax 
of  Petrarch's  victorious  career. 

No  man  outwardly  ever  had  a  happier  life  than 
he.  He  was  well-to-do  ;  was  handsome  and  amiable ; 
surrounded  by  friends  ;  admired  and  flattered  by  all 
Europe ;  looked  on  as  a  great  poet  and  a  prodigy 
of  learning.  Surely,  if  any  man  could  be  content, 
Petrarch  was  that  man.  And  yet  he  was  not  happy. 
Owing  to  his  peculiar  character,  his  sensitiveness, 
his  streak  of  melancholy,  his  immense  vanity  which 
could  never  be  fully  satisfied,  and  especially  owing 
to  the  constant  struggle  that  went  on  in  his  soul  be- 
tween the  medieval  ascetic  view  of  life  (which  he 
could  never  wholly  shake  off)  and  the  more  worldly 
modern  view,  which  he  himself  inaugurated  ;  owing 
to  all  these  things,  I  say,  there  is  a  tinge  of  sadness 
in  all  his  writings.  Perhaps  no  man  ever  lived  who 
123 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

illustrated  so  well  the  well-known  words  of  the  old 
Latin  poet :  — 

E'en  where  the  founts  of  pleasure  flow, 
A  bitter  something  bubbles  up. 

Indeed,  Petrarch's  character  presents  us  with 
strange  contrasts.  He  who  loved  travel  so  much  is 
forever  writing  about  the  joys  of  country  life ;  con- 
stantly seen  in  the  gay  and  often  licentious  courts 
of  princes,  he  wrote  a  treatise  in  praise  of  solitude ; 
receiving  his  living  from  the  church  and  naturally 
religious,  many  of  his  acts  were  contrary  to  both 
religion  and  morality. 

And  yet  Petrarch  was  not  a  hypocrite.  No  one 
can  doubt  his  sincerity ;  these  things  are  only  the 
outward  expression  of  that  struggle  which  was  con- 
stantly going  on  in  his  heart.  Like  St.  Paul,  he 
seemed  always  to  be  crying  out,  "  The  good  that  I 
would,  I  do  not,  but  the  evil  which  I  would  not, 
that  I  do." 

The  latter  part  of  his  life  was  thus  spent  in  ever- 
increasing  sadness.  In  1347  his  friend,  Colonna, 
died  ;  in  1348,  Laura;  in  1347  his  high  hopes  con- 
cerning the  restoration  of  the  ancient  glory  of  the 
Roman  Republic  through  Rienzi,  the  "  last  of  the 
tribunes,"  were  suddenly  dashed  by  the  fall  and 
death  of  the  latter.  Henceforth  Petrarch  spent  his 
124 


PETRARCH  AND   BOCCACCIO 

life  wandering  from  city  to  city,  from  court  to  court, 
surrounded  by  an  aureole  of  glory,  yet  never  at  rest, 
except  when  he  retired  to  the  quiet  seclusion  of 
Vaucluse. 

In  1370  he  went  to  the  university  town  of  Padua, 
then  the  centre  of  an  active  intellectual  life.  In  the 
spring  of  the  same  year  he  started  for  Rome,  in  re- 
sponse to  an  invitation  of  the  Pope,  but  fell  so  griev- 
ously ill  at  Ferrara  that  he  gave  up  his  journey  and 
settled  down  at  Arqua,  a  village  not  far  from  Padua, 
where  he  died  July  18, 1374.  He  was  found  dead 
in  his  library,  bending  over  a  folio  volume. 

As  may  be  supposed  from  Petrarch's  enthusiasm 
for  the  Latin  authors,  most  of  his  own  works  were 
written  in  that  language.  It  is  a  generous  trait  of 
literary  and  scholarly,  as  well  as  of  religious,  enthu- 
siasts that  they  are  not  content  merely  to  receive 
the  treasures  of  art  and  learning,  but  feel  impelled 
to  impart  their  own  joys  to  others.  Petrarch  was 
not  only  an  eager  student,  but  devoted  his  life  to 
making  known  to  others  the  riches  and  glory  of  an- 
cient Rome.  All  this  he  does  in  his  numerous  Latin 
works.  These  include,  —  in  poetry,  —  bucolics  and 
eclogues,  imitated  from  Vergil ;  poetic  epistles,  imi- 
tated from  Horace ;  and  especially  his  "  Africa," 
an  epic  poem  on  the  life  of  Scipio  Af ricanus,  from 
125 


THE  GREAT   POETS   OF  ITALY 

which  he  expected  immortality.  Of  especial  impor- 
tance in  the  development  of  the  Renaissance  and 
the  Revival  of  Learning  are  his  prose  Latin  works. 
Chief  among  these  we  may  mention  his  history  of 
"  Illustrious  Men,"  his  moral  and  religious  trac- 
tates, "  The  Remedy  of  Fortune,"  the  "  Solitary 
Life,"  and  especially  his  letters,  six  hundred  in 
number,  written  in  a  Latin  style  which  infinitely 
surpassed  anything  produced  till  then,  and  which 
founded  a  branch  of  literature  which  was  very  pop- 
ular throughout  all  the  Renaissance. 

For  our  purpose  here,  however,  we  can  only  dis- 
cuss in  detail  Petrarch's  Italian  poetry  —  he  wrote 
no  Italian  prose.  It  is  this  which  gives  him  his 
place  in  literature  as  the  first  great  lyric  poet  of 
modern  times. 

We  have  seen  that  Italian  lyrical  poetry  began 
in  Sicily,  and  that,  carried  thence  to  Bologna  and 
Tuscany,  it  formed  a  new  school,  which  found  its 
highest  expression  in  Dante.  Petrarch  once  more 
founds  a  new  school  of  lyric  writers  which,  while 
still  in  some  respects  recalling  the  poetry  of  his 
predecessors,  is  yet  in  spirit  far  different  from  them. 
With  him  poetry  is  no  longer  a  matter  of  chival- 
rous ideals,  as  with  the  troubadours,  or  of  symbol- 
ism and  philosophy,  as  with  Guido  Guinicelli  and 
126 


PETRARCH  AND   BOCCACCIO 

Dante,  but  the  expression  of  Ijis  own  genuine  feel- 
ings. His  Laura  is  not  like  the  Beatrice  of  the 
"  Divine  Comedy,"  a  mere  abstraction,  a  personifi- 
cation of  virtue  and  symbol  of  religion,  but  is  a 
woman  of  flesh  and  blood,  beautiful  and  virtuous,  but 
not  ethereal  and  mystical  —  a  woman,  in  fact,  — 

Not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food. 

In  his  songs,  then,  Petrarch  describes  real 
things  —  the  beauty  of  Laura  in  all  its  details ; 
her  coldness  and  his  suffering ;  and  especially  the 
conflicting  feelings  which  tormented  his  soul.  In 
his  subjectivity,  his  psychological  analysis  of  feel- 
ings, his  use  of  poetry  to  express  his  own  mental 
experiences ;  in  his  lovely  descriptions  of  nature ; 
and  especially  in  his  melancholy,  the  far-off  antici- 
pation of  the  "  Weltschmerz,"  Petrarch  is  indeed 
the  first  modern  lyrical  poet. 

He  himself  confidently  expected  immortality 
from  his  Latin  works,  which,  alas  for  the  vanity 
of  human  expectations !  are  now  forgotten  by  all 
except  special  students.  He  apparently  looked 
with  contempt  on  his  Italian  lyrics ;  yet  this  was 
only  affectation,  for  even  in  his  later  years  he 
carefully  revised  them.  These  songs  and  sonnets 
are  still  unsurpassed  in  Italian  literature.  Many, 
127 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

it  is  true,  are  artificial,  and  on  account  of  puns, 
antitheses,  and  conceits  are  repugnant  to  modern 
taste;  yet  the  large  number  of  his  best  poems 
are  exquisite  pictures  of  womanly  beauty,  with  a 
charming  landscape  as  a  background,  all  enveloped 
in  an  atmosphere  of  lovely  poetry,  full  of  tender- 
ness, pathos,  and  genuine  feeling.  Above  all,  they 
are  written  in  a  style  and  with  a  harmony  of  num- 
bers unknown  till  then  and  not  surpassed  since. 

Petrarch's  Italian  poetiy  consists  of  some  three 
hundred  and  seventy-five  ballads,  songs,  and  son- 
nets (the  latter  forming  the  vast  majority),  and 
in  the  twelve  chapters,  or  books,  of  the  so-called 
"Triumphs."  These  are,  with  but  few  exceptions, 
consecrated  to  the  story  of  his  love  for  a  certain 
woman  named  Laura,  concerning  whose  actual  ex- 
istence as  much  contest  has  been  waged  as  over 
that  of  Beatrice.  It  seems  now  pretty  definitely 
ascertained  that  Laura  was  no  mere  fancy-picture, 
but  a  real  being.  She  was  the  daughter  of  Audi- 
bert  de  Noves,  and  the  wife  of  Ugo  de  Sade,  to 
whom  she  bore  eleven  children.  She  died  April  6, 
1348,  probably  of  the  pest,  which  was  then  raging. 
Petrarch  saw  her  for  the  first  time  April  6,  1327, 
and  for  twenty-one  years  worshiped  her  from  a 
respectful  distance.  There  is  little  story  or  action 
128 


PETRARCH  AND   BOCCACCIO 

in  all  these  sonnets.  Petrarch's  love  is  not  returned 
by  Laura,  he  makes  no  progress  in  her  affections, 
and  his  poems  are  devoted  for  the  most  part  to 
descriptions  of  her  beauty,  coldness,  and  indiffer- 
ence, and  his  own  state  of  wretchedness. 

Among  the  many  sonnets  descriptive  of  Laura's 
beauty  we  may  take  the  following,  in  which  she  is 
declared  to  be  the  most  perfect  example  of  Nature's 
handiwork :  — 

The  stars,  the  elements,  and  Heaven  have  made 
With  blended  powers  a  work  beyond  compare ; 
All  their  consenting  influence,  all  their  care, 
To  frame  one  perfect  creature  lent  their  aid. 
Whence  Nature  views  her  loveliness  displayed 
With  sun-like  radiance  sublimely  fair ; 
Nor  mortal  eye  can  the  pure  splendor  bear : 
Love,  sweetness,  in  unmeasured  grace  arrayed. 
The  very  air  illumed  by  her  sweet  beams 
Breathes  purest  excellence ;  and  such  delight 
That  all  expression  far  beneath  it  gleams. 
No  base  desire  lives  in  that  heavenly  light, 
Honor  alone  and  virtue !  —  fancy's  dreams 
Never  saw  passion  rise  refined  by  rays  so  bright.1 

In  another  sonnet  he  tells  how  he  was  affected 
the  first  time  he  saw  her :  — 

Sun  never  rose  so  beautiful  and  bright 

When  skies  above  most  clear  and  cloudless  showed, 

1  Capel  Lofft. 
129 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Nor,  after  rain,  the  bow  of  heaven  e'er  glowed 
With  tints  so  varied,  delicate,  and  light, 
As  in  rare  beauty  flashed  upon  my  sight, 
The  day  I  first  took  up  this  am'rous  load, 
That  face  whose  fellow  ne'er  on  earth  abode  — 
Even  my  praise  to  paint  it  seems  a  slight ! 
Then  saw  I  Love,  who  did  her  fine  eyes  bend 
So  sweetly,  every  other  face  obscure 
Has  from  that  hour  till  now  appeared  to  me. 
The  boy-god  and  his  bow,  I  saw  them,  friend, 
From  whom  life  since  has  never  been  secure, 
Whom  still  I  madly  yearn  again  to  see.1 

Wherever  he  goes  he  is  pursued  by  his  love  :  — 

Alone,  and  pensive,  near  some  desert  shore, 

Far  from  the  haunts  of  men  I  love  to  stray, 

And,  cautiously,  my  distant  path  explore 

Where  never  human  footsteps  marked  the  way. 

Thus  from  the  public  gaze  I  strive  to  fly, 

And  to  the  winds  alone  my  griefs  impart ; 

While  in  my  hollow  cheek  and  haggard  eye 

Appears  the  fire  that  burns  my  inmost  heart. 

But  ah,  in  vain  to  distant  scenes  I  go ; 

No  solitude  my  troubled  thoughts  allays. 

Methinks  e'en  things  inanimate  must  know 

The  flame  that  on  my  soul  in  secret  preys ; 

Whilst  Love,  unconquered,  with  resistless  sway 

Still  hovers  round  my  path,  still  meets  me  on  my  way.3 

Yet  Laura  is  not  only  beautiful,  but  good ;  a  vir- 
tuous heart,  a  lofty  mind,  a  happy  spirit,  all  these 
are  united  in  her  with  natural  grace  and  beauty. 

1  Macgregor.  a  J.  B.  Taylor. 

130 


PETRARCH  AND   BOCCACCIO 

High  birth  in  humble  life,  reserved  yet  kind, 

On  youth's  gay  flower  ripe  fruits  of  age  and  rare, 

A  virtuous  heart,  therewith  a  lofty  mind, 

A  happy  spirit  in  a  pensive  air ; 

Her  planet,  nay,  heaven's  king,  has  fitly  shrined 

All  gifts  and  graces  in  this  lady  fair, 

True  honor,  purest  praises,  worth  refined, 

Above  what  rapt  dreams  of  best  poets  are. 

Virtue  and  Love  so  rich  in  her  unite, 

With  natural  beauty  dignified  address, 

Gestures  that  still  a  silent  grace  express, 

And  in  her  eyes  I  know  not  what  strange  light, 

That  makes  the  noonday  dark,  the  dusk  night  clear, 

Bitter  the  sweet,  and  e'en  sad  absence  dear.1 

Petrarch  not  only  gives  general  descriptions  of 
the  beauty  of  his  lady  and  their  effect  as  his  prede- 
cessors had  done,  but  he  gives  over  and  over  again 
details  thereof,  especially  her  eyes  and  hair :  — 

Say,  from  what  vein  did  Love  procure  the  gold 
To  make  those  sunny  tresses  ?   From  what  thorn 
Stole  he  the  rose,  and  whence  the  dew  of  morn, 
Bidding  them  breathe  and  live  in  Beauty's  mould  ? 
What  depth  of  ocean  gavo  the  pearls  that  told 
Those  gentle  accents  sweet,  though  rarely  born  ? 
Whence  came  so  many  graces  to  adorn 
Thai  brow  more  fair  than  summer  skies  unfold  ? 
Oh !  say  what  angels  lead,  what  spheres  control 
The  song  divine  which  wastes  my  life  away  ? 
(Who  can  with  trifles  now  my  senses  move?) , 
What  sun  gave  birth  unto  the  lofty  soul 

1  Macgregor. 
131 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Of  those  enchanting  eyes,  whose  glances  stray 

To  burn  and  freeze  my  heart  —  the  sport  of  Love  ?  * 

He  is  especially  fond  of  describing  the  scenes 
where  she  is,  thus  combining  with  her  own  charms 
those  of  lovely  nature.  Thus  he  sees  her  on  the 
banks  of  clear  streams,  sitting  on  the  green  grass, 
with  blossoms  falling  upon  her  from  the  trees  in 
springtime,  as  in  the  following  lines  from  one  of  his 
most  beautiful  songs :  — 

Clear,  fresh,  and  dnlcet  streams, 

Which  the  fair  shape  who  seems 

To  me,  sole  woman,  haunted  at  noontide  ; 

Fair  bough,  so  gently  fit, 

(I  sigh  to  think  of  it), 

Which  lent  a  pillar  to  her  lovely  side  ; 

And  turf,  and  flowers  bright-eyed, 

O'er  which  her  folded  gown 

Flowed  like  an  angel's  down  ; 

And  you,  O  holy  air  and  hushed, 

Where  first  my  heart  at  her  sweet  glances  gushed ; 

Give  ear,  give  ear,  with  one  consenting, 

To  my  last  words,  my  last  and  my  lamenting. 

......•• 

How  well  I  call  to  mind, 

When  from  those  boughs  the  wind 

Shook  down  upon  her  bosom  flower  on  flower ; 

And  there  she  sat  meek-eyed, 

In  midst  of  all  that  pride, 

Sprinkled  and  blushing  through  an  amorous  shower. 

Some  to  her  hair  paid  dower, 

1  Wrottesley. 
132 


PETRARCH  AND  BOCCACCIO 

And  seemed  to  dress  the  curls, 

Queenlike,  with  gold  and  pearls  ; 

Some,  snowing,  on  her  drapery  stopped, 

Some  on  the  earth,  some  on  the  water  dropped ; 

While  others,  fluttering  from  above, 

Seemed  wheeling  round  in  pomp,  and  saying,  "  Here  reigns  Love." 

How  often  then  I  said, 

Inward,  and  filled  with  dread, 
"  Doubtless  this  creature  came  from  Paradise  !  " 

For  at  her  look  the  while, 

Her  voice,  and  her  sweet  smile, 

And  heavenly  air,  truth  parted  from  mine  eyes ; 

So  that,  with  long-drawn  sighs, 

I  said,  as  far  from  men, 
"  How  came  I  here,  and  when  ?  " 

I  had  forgotten ;  and  alas ! 

Fancied  myself  in  heaven,  not  where  I  was; 

And  from  that  time  till  this,  I  bear 

Such  love  for  the  green  bower,  I  cannot  rest  elsewhere.1 

Yet,  in  spite  of  all  her  beauty,  he  is  not  happy ; 
the  thought  of  her  never  leaves  him.  When  absent 
from  her  he  is  most  miserable :  — 

Never  was  bird,  spoiled  of  its  young,  more  sad, 
Or  wild  beast  in  his  lair,  more  lone  than  me, 
Now  that  no  more  that  lovely  face  I  see, 
The  only  sun  my  fond  eyes  ever  had. 
In  ceaseless  sorrow  is  my  chief  delight ; 
My  food  to  poison  turns,  to  grief  my  joy ; 
The  night  is  torture,  dark  the  clearest  sky, 
And  my  lone  pillow  a  hard  field  of  fight. 

1  Leigh  Hunt. 
133 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Sleep  is  indeed,  as  has  been  well  expressed, 
Akin  to  death,  for  it  the  heart  removes 
From  the  dear  thought  in  which  alone  I  live. 
Land  above  all  with  plenty,  beauty  blessed ! 
Ye  flowery  plains,  green  banks,  and  shady  groves ! 
Ye  hold  the  treasure  for  whose  loss  I  grieve !  * 

Night,  which  brings  rest  and  peace  to  others, 
brings  it  not  to  him  :  — 

O'er  earth  and  sky  her  lone  watch  silence  keeps, 
And  bird  and  beast  in  stirless  slumber  lie, 
Her  starry  chariot  Night  conducts  on  high, 
And  in  its  bed  the  waveless  ocean  sleeps. 
I  wake,  muse,  burn,  and  weep  ;  of  all  my  pain 
The  one  sweet  cause  appears  before  me  still ; 
War  is  my  lot,  which  grief  and  anger  fill, 
And  thinking  but  of  her  some  rest  I  gain. 
Thus  from  one  bright  and  living  fountain  flows 
The  bitter  and  the  sweet  on  which  I  feed ; 
One  hand  alone  can  harm  me  or  can  heal ; 
And  thus  my  martyrdom  no  limit  knows, 
A  thousand  deaths  and  lives  each  day  I  feel, 
So  distant  are  the  paths  to  peace  which  lead.1 

Above  all,  his  torment  is  increased  by  the  contest 
between  his  religious  feelings  and  his  love,  which, 
earthly  as  it  was,  seemed  to  be  inconsistent  with 
his  duty  as  a  Christian.  Yet  he  cannot  tear  his 
heart  away  from  the  object  of  his  affection.  Hence 
arises  a  constant  warring  of  the  flesh  against  the 

1  Macgregor. 
134 


PETRARCH  AND   BOCCACCIO 

spirit,  and  a  vacillation  which  finds  expression  in 
sentiments  diametrically  opposite.  Thus  at  times 
he  declares  that  his  love  for  Laura  is  a  blessing  to 
him,  leading  him  to  a  virtuous  and  religious  life :  — 

Lady,  in  your  bright  eyes 

Soft  glancing  round,  I  mark  a  holy  light, 

Pointing  the  arduous  way  that  heavenward  lies ; 

And  to  my  practised  sight, 

From  thence,  where  Love  enthroned,  asserts  his  might, 

Visibly,  palpably,  the  soul  beams  forth. 

This  is  the  beacon  guides  to  deeds  of  worth, 

And  urges  me  to  seek  the  glorious  goal ; 

This  bids  me  leave  behind  the  vulgar  throng, 

Nor  can  the  human  tongue 

Tell  how  those  orbs  divine  o'er  all  my  soul 

Exert  their  sweet  control, 

Both  when  hoar  winter's  frosts  around  are  flung, 

And  when  the  year  puts  on  his  youth  again, 

Jocund,  as  when  this  bosom  first  knew  pain.1 

And  again  :  — 

Throned  on  her  angel  brow,  when  love  displays 
His  radiant  form  among  all  other  fair, 
Far  as  eclipsed  their  choicest  charms  appear, 
I  feel  beyond  its  wont  my  passion  blaze. 
And  still  I  bless  the  day,  the  hour,  the  place, 
When  first  so  high  mine  eyes  I  dared  to  rear  ; 
And  say,  "  Fond  heart,  thy  gratitude  declare, 
That  then  them  hadst  the  privilege  to  gaze. 

1  Dacre. 
135 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

'T  was  she  inspired  the  tender  thought  of  love, 

Which  points  to  heaven,  and  teaches  to  despise 

The  earthly  vanities  that  others  prize  : 

She  gave  the  soul's  light  grace,  which  to  the  skies 

Bids  thee  straight  onward  in  the  right  path  move ; 

Whence  buoyed  by  hope  e'en  now  I  soar  to  worlds  above."1 

Then  comes  another  mood,  in  which  his  love  seems 
sinful  and  he  prays  God  to  lead  him  to  a  better 
life:  — 

Father  of  heaven !  after  the  days  misspent, 
After  the  nights  of  wild  tumultuous  thought, 
In  that  fierce  passion's  strong  entanglement, 
One,  for  my  peace  too  lovely  fair,  had  wrought ; 
Vouchsafe  that,  by  thy  grace,  my  spirit  bent 
On  nobler  aims,  to  holier  ways  be  brought ; 
That  so  my  foe,  spreading  with  dark  intent 
His  mortal  snares,  be  foiled,  and  held  at  nought. 
E'en  now  th'  eleventh J[ear  its  course  fulfils, 
That  I  have  bowed  me  to  the  tyranny 
Relentless  most  to  fealty  most  tried. 
Have  mercy,  Lord !  on  my  unworthy  ills ; 
Fix  all  my  thoughts  in  contemplation  high ; 
How  on  the  cross  this  day  a  Saviour  died.  2 

Once  he  made  a  pilgrimage  to  Rome,  and  the 
sight  of  the  holy  city  increases  the  conviction  he 
has  that  he  ought  to  tear  himself  from  Laura :  — 

The  solemn  aspect  of  this  sacred  shore 
Wakes  for  the  misspent  past  my  bitter  sighs ; 

1  Wrangham.  2  Dacre. 

136 


PETRARCH  AND   BOCCACCIO 

"  Pause,  wretched  man  !  and  turn,"  as  conscience  cries, 
Pointing  the  heavenward  way  where  I  should  soar. 
But  soon  another  thought  gets  mastery  o'er 
The  first,  that  so  to  palter  were  unwise ; 
E'en  now  the  time,  if  memory  err  not,  flies, 
When  we  should  wait  our  lady-love  before. 
I,  for  his  aim  then  well  I  apprehend, 
Within  me  freeze,  as  one  who  sudden  hears 
News  unexpected,  which  his  soul  offend. 
Returns  my  first  thought  then,  that  disappears ; 
Nor  know  I  which  shall  conquer,  but  till  now 
Within  me  they  contend,  nor  hope  of  rest  allow !  ' 

This  state  of  his  mind,  divided  against  itself,  finds 
its  best  expression  in  the  song,  which  is  regarded 
as  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his  poems.  In  the 
various  strophes  conflicting  sentiments  arise,  de- 
velop, and  reach  a  climax,  only  to  be  overthrown 
by  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling ;  fame,  happiness, 
the  sweetness  of  love  beckon  the  poet  on ;  then 
comes  the  chilling  thought  of  death  to  show  that 
all  things  earthly  are  nothing  but  vanity.  Unfor- 
tunately this  song  is  too  long  to  be  quoted  here 
entire.  We  give  the  first  strophe  and  the  refrain :  — 

Ceaseless  I  think,  and  in  each  wasting  thought 

So  strong  a  pity  for  myself  appears, 

That  often  it  has  brought 

My  harassed  heart  to  new  yet  natural  tears ; 

1  Macgregor. 
137 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Seeing  each  day  my  end  of  life  draw  nigh, 

Instant  in  prayer,  I  ask  of  God  the  wings 

With  which  the  spirit  springs, 

Freed  from  its  mortal  coil,  to  bliss  on  high ; 

But  nothing  to  this  hour,  prayer,  tear,  or  sigh, 

Whatever  man  could  do,  my  hopes  sustain ; 

And  so  indeed  in  justice  should  it  be  ; 

Able  to  stay,  who  went  and  fell,  that  he 

Should  prostrate,  in  his  own  despite,  remain. 

But,  lo !  the  tender  arms 

In  which  I  trust  are  open  to  me  still, 

Though  fears  my  bosom  fill 

Of  other's  fate,  and  my  own  heart  alarms, 

Which  worldly  feelings  spur,  haply  to  utmost  ill. 


Song !  I  am  here,  my  heart  the  while  more  cold 

With  fear  than  frozen  snow, 

Feels  in  its  certain  core  death's  coming  blow ; 

For  thus,  in  weak  self-communing  has  rolled 

Of  my  vain  life  the  better  portion  by : 

Worse  burden  surely  ne'er 

Tried  mortal  man  than  that  which  now  I  bear ; 

Though  death  be  seated  nigh, 

For  future  life  still  seeking  councils  new, 

I  know  and  love  the  good,  yet,  ah  !  the  worse  pursue. 1 

The  finest  of  Petrarch's  sonnets  are  those  written 
after  the  death  of  Laura.  With  this  dread  event 
he  loses  all  joy  in  life ;  the  thought  of  her  beauty  re- 
turns softened  by  memory  and  the  lapse  of  tune :  — 

1  Macgregor. 
138 


PETRARCH   AND   BOCCACCIO 

Where  is  the  brow  whose  gentlest  beckonings  led 

My  raptured  heart  at  will,  now  here,  now  there  ? 

Where  the  twin  stars,  lights  of  this  lower  sphere, 

Which  o'er  my  darkling  path  their  radiance  shed  ? 

Where  is  true  worth,  and  wit,  and  wisdom  fled  ? 

The  courteous  phrase,  the  melting  accent,  where  ? 

Where,  grouped  in  one  rich  form,  the  beauties  rare, 

Which  long  their  magic  influence  o'er  me  shed  ? 

Where  is  the  shade,  within  whose  sweet  recess 

My  wearied  spirit  still  forgot  its  sighs, 

And  all  my  thoughts  their  constant  record  found  ? 

Where,  where  is  she,  my  life's  sole  arbitress  ? 

Ah,  wretched  world !  and  wretched  ye,  mine  eyes 

(Of  her  pure  light  bereft)  which  aye  with  tears  are  drowned.1 

Yet,  in  his  affliction  there  is  a  certain  comfort, 
for  now  that  she  is  dead  she  seems  no  longer  cold 
to  him,  and  he  often  sees  and  converses  with  her 
in  heaven :  — 

Fond  fancy  raised  me  to  the  spot  where  strays 

She  whom  I  seek  but  find  on  earth  no  more ; 

There,  fairer  still  and  humbler  than  before, 

I  saw  her,  in  the  third  heaven's  blessed  maze. 

She  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  "  Thou  shalt  trace, 

If  hope  not  errs,"  she  said,  "  this  happy  shore ; 

I,  I  am  she,  thy  breast  with  slights  who  tore, 

And  ere  its  evening  closed  my  day's  brief  space. 

What  human  heart  conceives  my  joys  exceed  ; 

Thee  only  I  expect,  and  (what  remain 

Below)  the  charms,  once  objects  of  thy  love." 

Why  ceased  she  ?     Ah  !  my  captive  hand  why  freed  ? 

1  Wrangham. 
139 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Such  of  her  soft  and  hallowed  tones  the  chain, 

From  that  delightful  heaven  my  soul  could  scarcely  move.1 

She  treats  him  kindly,  bending  over  him  from  her 
heavenly  seat,  as  a  mother  over  her  child :  — 

Ne'er  did  fond  mother  to  her  darling  son, 

Or  zealous  spouse  to  her  beloved  mate, 

Sage  counsel  give,  in  perilous  estate, 

With  such  kind  caution,  in  such  tender  tone, 

As  gives  that  fair  one,  -who,  oft  looking  down 

On  my  hard  exile  from  her  heavenly  seat, 

With  wonted  kindness  bends  upon  my  fate 

Her  brow,  as  friend  or  parent  would  have  done  : 

Now  chaste  affection  prompts  her  speech,  now  fear, 

Instructive  speech,  that  points  what  several  ways 

To  seek  or  shun,  while  journeying  here  below ; 

Then  all  the  ills  of  life  she  counts,  and  prays 

My  soul  ere  long  may  quit  this  terrene  sphere ; 

And  by  her  words  alone  I  'm  soothed  and  freed  from  woe.3 

When  spring  returns,  it  brings  a  renewal  of  his 
grief :  — 

The  spring  returns,  with  all  her  smiling  train : 
The  wanton  Zephyrs  breathe  along  the  bowers, 
The  glistening  dewdrops  hang  on  bending  flowers, 
And  tender  green  light-shadows  o'er  the  plain ; 
And  thou,  sweet  Philomel,  renew'st  thy  strain, 
Breathing  thy  wild  notes  to  the  midnight  grove ; 
All  nature  feels  the  kindling  fire  of  love, 
The  vital  force  of  spring's  returning  reign. 
But  not  to  me  returns  the  cheerful  spring ! 
O  heart !  that  know'st  no  period  to  thy  grief, 

1  Wrangham.  *  Not*. 

140 


PETRARCH  AND   BOCCACCIO 

Nor  nature's  smiles  to  thee  impart  relief, 

Nor  change  of  mind  the  varying  seasons  bring : 

She,  she  is  gone  !     All  that  e'er  pleased  before, 

Adieu !  ye  birds,  ye  flowers,  ye  fields,  that  charm  no  more ! l 

The  charms  of  Vaucluse  only  embitter  his  sense  of 
loss :  — 

Once  more,  ye  balmy  gales,  I  feel  you  blow ; 
Again,  sweet  hills,  I  mark  the  morning  beams 
Gild  your  green  summits :  while  your  silver  streams 
Through  vales  of  fragrance  undulating  flow. 
Bnt  you,  ye  dreams  of  bliss,  no  longer  here 
Give  life  and  beauty  to  the  glowing  scene ; 
For  stern  remembrance  stands  where  you  have  been, 
And  blasts  the  verdure  of  the  blooming  year. 

0  Laura  !   Laura !   in  the  dust  with  thee, 
Would  I  could  find  a  refuge  from  despair ! 
Is  this  thy  boasted  triumph,  Love,  to  tear 
A  heart  thy  coward  malice  dares  not  free ; 
And  bid  it  live,  while  every  hope  is  fled, 
To  weep,  among  the  ashes  of  the  dead  ?  a 

His  only  comfort  now  is  in  thinking  that  he,  too, 
must  soon  die  :  — 

Oh !  swifter  than  the  hart  my  life  hath  fled, 
A  shadowed  dream ;  one  winged  glance  hath  seen 
Its  only  good  ;  its  hours  (how  few  serene !) 
The  sweet  and  bitter  tide  of  thought  have  fed : 
Ephemeral  world !  in  pride  and  sorrow  bred, 
Who  hope  in  thee,  are  blind  as  I  have  been ; 

1  hoped  in  thee,  and  thus  my  heart's  loved  queen 
Hath  borne  it  mid  her  nerveless,  kindred  dead. 

1  Woodhouselee.  2  Anne  Bannerman. 

141 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Her  form  decayed  —  its  beauty  still  survives ; 
For  in  high  heaven  that  soul  will  ever  bloom, 
With  which  each  day  I  more  enamoured  grow : 
Thus  though  my  locks  are  blanched,  my  hope  revives 
In  thinking  on  her  home  —  her  soul's  high  doom : 
Alas !  how  changed  the  shrine  she  left  below ! 1 

Weary  of  life,  now  that  lie  is  left  alone,  he  de- 
votes himself  to  God ;  he  directs  all  his  thought  to 
heaven,  where  Laura  awaits  and  beckons  him :  — 

The  chosen  angels,  and  spirits  blest, 

Celestial  tenants,  on  that  glorious  day 

My  lady  joined  them,  thronged  in  bright  array 

Around  her,  with  amaze  and  awe  imprest. 
"  What  splendour,  what  new  beauty  stands  confest 

Unto  our  sight  ?  "  —  among  themselves  they  say; 
"  No  soul,  in  this  vile  age,  from  sinful  clay 

To  our  high  realms  has  risen  so  fair  a  guest." 

Delighted  to  have  changed  her  mortal  state, 

She  ranks  amid  the  purest  of  her  kind ; 

And  ever  and  anon  she  looks  behind, 

To  mark  my  progress  and  my  coining  wait ; 

Now  my  whole  thought,  my  wish  to  heaven  I  cast ; 

'T  is  Laura's  voice  I  hear,  and  hence  she  bids  me  haste.3 

His  love  thus  purified  and  his  thoughts  now  turned 
to  God  alone,  the  poet  awaits  in  resignation  the 
coming  of  the  inevitable  hour  of  death.  The 
"Book  of  Songs  and  Sonnets,"  as  his  Italian 
poetry  may  be  called,  ends  in  a  beautiful  hymn  to 

1  Wollaston.  2  Nott. 

142 


PETRARCH  AND   BOCCACCIO 

the  Virgin  Mary,  in  which  the  poet  breathes  forth 
his  chastened  sorrow  and  his  hopes. 

Beautiful  Virgin !  clothed  with  the  sun, 

Crowned  with  the  stars,  who  so  the  Eternal  Sun 

Well  pleasedst  that  in  thine  his  light  he  hid ; 

Love  pricks  me  on  to  utter  speech  of  thee, 

And  —  feeble  to  commence  without  thy  aid  — 

Of  Him  who  on  thy  bosom  rests  in  love. 

Her  I  invoke  who  gracious  still  replies 

To  all  who  ask  in  faith, 

Virgin  !  if  ever  yet 

The  misery  of  man  and  mortal  things 

To  mercy  moved  thee,  to  my  prayer  incline ; 

Help  me  in  this  my  strife, 

Though  I  am  but  of  dust,  and  thou  heaven's  radiant  Queen ! 

Bright  Virgin !  and  imimitable  as  bright, 

O'er  life's  tempestuous  ocean  the  sure  star 

Each  trusting  mariner  that  truly  guides, 

Look  down,  and  see  amid  this  dreadful  storm 

How  I  am  tost  at  random  and  alone, 

And  how  already  my  last  shriek  is  near, 

Yet  still  in  thee,  sinful  although  and  vile, 

My  soul  keeps  all  her  trust ; 

Virgin !  I  thee  implore 

Let  not  thy  foe  have  triumph  in  my  fall ; 

Remember  that  our  sin  made  God  himself, 

To  free  us  from  its  chain, 

Within  thy  virgin  womb  our  image  on  Him  take ! 

Virgin !  what  tears  already  have  I  shed, 
Cherished  what  dreams  and  breathed  what  prayers  in  vain, 
143 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

But  for  my  own  worse  penance  and  sure  loss ; 

Since  first  on  Arno's  shore  I  saw  the  light 

Till  now,  whate'er  I  sought,  wherever  turned, 

My  life  has  passed  in  torment  and  in  tears ; 

For  mortal  loveliness  in  air,  act,  speech, 

Has  seized  and  soiled  my  soul : 

O  Virgin  !  pure  and  good, 

Delay  not  till  I  reach  my  life's  last  year ; 

Swifter  than  shaft  and  shuttle  are,  my  days 

'Mid  misery  and  sin 

Have  vanished  all,  and  now  Death  only  is  behind ! 

Virgin  I     She  now  is  dust,  who,  living,  held 

My  heart  in  grief,  and  plunged  it  since  in  gloom ; 

She  knew  not  of  my  many  ills  this  one, 

And  had  she  known,  what  since  befell  me  still 

Had  been  the  same,  for  every  other  wish 

Was  death  to  me  and  ill  renown  for  her  ; 

But,  Queen  of  heaven,  our  Goddess  —  if  to  thee 

Such  homage  be  not  sin  — 

Virgin !  of  matchless  mind, 

Thou  knowest  now  the  whole  ;  and  that,  which  else 

No  other  can,  is  nought  to  thy  great  power  : 

Deign  then  my  grief  to  end, 

Thus  honor  shall  be  thine,  and  safe  my  peace  at  last  I 

Virgin !  benevolent,  and  foe  of  pride, 
Ah  !  let  the  love  of  our  one  Author  win, 
Some  mercy  for  a  contrite  humble  heart : 
For,  if  her  poor  frail  mortal  dust  I  loved 
With  loyalty  so  wonderful  and  long, 
Much  more  my  faith  and  gratitude  for  thee. 
From  this  my  present  sad  and  sunken  state 
If  by  thy  help  I  rise, 

144 


PETRARCH  AND  BOCCACCIO 

Virgin  !  to  thy  dear  name 

I  consecrate  and  cleanse  my  thoughts,  speech,  pen, 

My  mind,  and  heart  with  all  its  tears  and  sighs ; 

Point  then  that  better  path, 

And  with  complacence  view  my  changed  desires  at  last. 

The  day  must  come,  nor  distant  far  its  date, 
Time  flies  so  swift  and  sure, 

0  peerless  and  alone ! 

When  death  my  heart,  now  conscience  struck,  shall  seize  ; 

Commend  me,  Virgin !  then  to  thy  dear  Son, 

True  God  and  Very  Man, 

That  my  last  sigh  in  peace  may,  in  his  arms,  be  breathed !  1 

We  have  hitherto  discussed  the  development  of 
poetry  almost  exclusively ;  and  this  is  justifiable, 
for  in  Italy,  as  in  all  other  countries,  the  develop- 
ment of  prose  as  a  form  of  literature  comes  after 
that  of  poetry.  Petrarch  wrote  no  prose  in  Italian  ; 
and  although  Dante  wrote  his  "  Banquet "  and,  in 
part,  his  "  New  Life  "  in  prose,  yet  the  former  is 
couched  in  scholastic  phraseology  and  the  prose 
portion  of  the  latter  is  of  small  compass.  Giovanni 
Boccaccio,  although  not  so  great  a  poet  as  Dante, 
or  so  great  a  scholar  and  master  of  form  as  Pe- 
trarch, is  yet  of  high  importance  in  the  history  of 

1  Macgregor.    A  collection  of  translations  of  Petrarch's  Italian 
poems,  together  with  an  extended  life  of  the  poet,  is  published 
in  the  Bohn  Library.     Very  important  are  the  Latin  letters  of 
Petrarch,  an  English  translation  of  a  number  of  which  was  pub- 
lished a  short  time  ago  by  Putnam  &  Co.,  of  New  York. 

115       jX**<-  *<*+f  *«<"  «*'f  r* 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Italian  literature  from  a  double  point  of  view,  as 
the  first  great  writer  of  prose  and  the  founder  of 
the  modern  novel. 

We  can  only  give  here  a  brief  outline  of  his  life 
and  character,  before  passing  on  to  his  works.  He 
was  born  in  Paris  in  1313,  the  son  of  a  Florentine 
merchant  and  a  young  French  gentlewoman.  Re- 
turning to  Florence  with  his  father,  he  was  sent  to 
school  and  is  said  to  have  written  verses  before 
the  age  of  seven.  His  father,  a  merchant  himself, 
wished  his  son  to  follow  the  same  career,  and  at 
the  age  of  fourteen  the  boy  was  taken  to  Naples 
with  this  purpose  in  view.  In  this  "  great,  sinful 
city  "  Boccaccio  passed  his  youth,  at  first  hi  busi- 
ness, then  in  the  study  of  law,  both  of  which,  how- 
ever, he  heartily  disliked.  Making  the  acquaint- 
ance of  some  well-known  scholars,  he  was  inducted 
into  a  love  for  study,  and  resolved  to  devote  him- 
self to  a  literary  career. 

About  1340  he  left  Naples  and  returned  to 
Florence,  which  henceforth  became  his  residence, 
although  he  was  frequently  absent  from  it  on  mat- 
ters of  business  and  pleasure.  For  he  soon  became 
known  as  a  scholar  and  poet,  and,  in  accordance 
with  the  customs  of  the  times,  he  was  honored  by 
his  city  by  being  sent  on  frequent  embassies.  In 
146 


BOCCACCIO 


PETKARCH  AND   BOCCACCIO 

this  capacity  he  went,  in  1350,  to  Ravenna,  to  the 
daughter  of  Dante ;  in  1354,  to  Pope  Innocent  VI., 
at  Avignon ;  and  hi  1351,  to  Petrarch  at  Padua, 
in  order  to  induce  the  great  poet  and  scholar  to  re- 
side in  Florence.  This  meeting  with  the  great 
apostle  of  the  New  Learning  was  an  important 
event  hi  Boccaccio's  life,  who  from  henceforth  be- 
came one  of  his  most  enthusiastic  admirers. 

He  plunged  still  more  eagerly  into  the  study  of 
classic  antiquity;  and  although,  as  we  have  said, 
not  so  great  a  scholar  as  Petrarch,  he  accomplished 
some  things  which  the  latter  had  not  been  able  to 
do.  Thus  he  learned  Greek,  imperfectly,  however, 
and  introduced  to  the  Western  world  a  knowledge 
of  that  language  (unknown  to  the  Middle  Ages) 
by  bringing  Leontius  Pilatus  to  Florence  as  a  pro- 
fessor in  the  university.  It  was  at  the  dictation  of 
the  latter  that  Boccaccio  wrote  down  his  Latin 
translation  of  the  Homeric  poems,  which,  worth- 
less as  it  now  seems,  then  excited  widespread  ad- 
miration. 

Boccaccio  differed  from  Petrarch  in  being  an 
ardent  admirer  and  indefatigable  student  of  Dante. 
Petrarch  had  once  declared  that  he  had  never  read 
the  "  Divine  Comedy,"  and  he  scarcely  ever  men- 
tions the  name  of  his  mighty  predecessor.  This  was 
147 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

y/  undoubtedly  due  to  a  sort  of  jealousy,  for  Petrarch 
in  his  inordinate  pride  and  vanity  could  not  endure 
the  thought  of  a  rival,  even  among  the  dead.  Boc- 
caccio generously  tried  to  reconcile  these  two  great 
poets,  the  one  dead,  the  other  still  living,  and  in 
1359  he  sent  to  Petrarch  a  copy  of  the  "  Divine 
Comedy,"  written  with  his  own  hand.  He  only  suc- 
ceeded, however,  in  calling  forth  a  cold  letter,  in 
which  Petrarch  defended  himself  against  the  accu- 
sation of  jealousy,  and  accorded  to  Dante  a  small 
measure  of  perfunctory  praise. 

The  influence  of  Dante  on  Boccaccio  himself  is 
seen  on  almost  every  page  of  his  poetry,  and  it  was 
in  reward  of  his  services  in  promoting  the  study  of 
the  former's  works  that  in  1373  he  was  invited  by 
Florence  to  lecture  on  the  "  Divine  Comedy "  in 
the  Church  of  Santo  Stefano.  The  results  of  this 
professorship,  which  Boccaccio  only  held  for  a  short 
time,  are  recorded  in  his  life  of  Dante  and  the 
commentaries  on  part  of  the  "  Inferno." 

Boccaccio's  character  was  in  many  respects  an 
attractive  one  ;  he  was  honest,  sincere,  and  modest ; 
a  faithful  friend,  a  lover  of  true  literature  ;  and, 
above  all,  of  a  lovable  and  gentle  disposition  ;  Gio- 
vanni della  Tranquillity  his  friends  called  him  — 
*'  John  of  the  quiet  mind,"  as  we  may  translate  it. 
148 


PETRARCH  AND   BOCCACCIO 

The  gravest  accusation  made  against  him,  and  one, 
alas  !  only  too  well  founded,  is  his  immorality.  In 
his  early  years,  and  even  later  in  life,  his  manners 
were  light,  and  the  effects  thereof  are  too  often  re- 
flected in  his  books.  Before  condemning  him  too 
harshly,  however,  we  must  bear  in  mind  the  low 
state  of  morals  that  marked  all  society  at  that  time. 
Toward  the  end  of  his  life  Boccaccio  became  con- 
verted by  a  strange  event.  It  seems  that  a  certain 
Carthusian  monk,  Pietro  de'  Petroni,  who,  by  the 
austerity  of  his  life  and  his  religious  exaltation,  had 
won  a  reputation  for  holiness,  died  at  Siena,  May 
29,  1361.  Fourteen  days  before  his  death  he  en- 
tered into  a  trance,  in  which  he  had  a  vision  of  the 
saints  in  heaven  and  the  damned  in  hell.  When  he 
awoke  he  declared  that  he  had  been  commanded 
by  Christ  to  warn  a  number  of  distinguished  men  of 
the  error  of  their  ways.  Among  these  was  Boccac- 
cio. Being  too  ill  to  go  himself,  Petroni  sent  his 
disciple  Gioachino  Ciani  to  fulfill  his  commission. 
The  latter  came  to  Florence,  told  Boccaccio  of  his 
master's  vision,  and  then,  in  fiery  language,  urged 
him  to  see  to  the  salvation  of  his  soul,  and  to  re- 
pudiate his  immoral  writings,  else  he  would  soon 
die  and  his  soul  be  lost  forever.  Boccaccio  was 
deeply  affected  by  this  strange  embassy.  In  the 
149 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

first  moments  of  depression  he  resolved  to  give  up 
all  study,  burn  his  books,  write  no  more,  and  spend 
the  rest  of  his  life  in  religious  exercises.  From  this 
violent  action,  however,  he  was  saved  by  a  sensible 
letter  from  Petrarch.  Yet  the  effect  did  not  pass 
away.  Ever  after  this  he  was  more  serious  and 
thought  more  of  religious  matters.  He  lost  his 
former  zest  in  life  ;  his  gayety  and  serenity  of  tem- 
per became  clouded.  After  a  youth  of  enjoyment 
the  evening  of  life  came  on  gray  and  cold. 

He  died  December  21, 1375,  in  Certaldo,  not  far 
from  Florence. 

Boccaccio,  like  Petrarch,  wrote  much  in  Latin, 
chief  among  such  writings  being  the  historical  or 
biographical  compilations  on  "  Illustrious  Women  " 
and  the  "  Vicissitudes  of  Great  Men,"  and  espe- 
cially his  "  Genealogy  of  the  Gods,"  which  for  one 
hundred  years  and  more  became  the  standard  hand- 
book of  mythology.  His  work  in  Italian  is  exten- 
sive, both  in  prose  and  poetry.  The  one  book,  how- 
ever, by  which  he  is  known  to-day,  not  only  hi  Italy, 
but  the  world  over,  is  his  "  Decameron,"  a  collec- 
tion of  short  stories  in  prose.  In  this  book  he  be- 
comes epoch-making  in  a  double  sense,  for  it  begins 
both  Italian  prose  and  the  modern  novel.  The  name 
of  the  book  is  composed  of  two  Greek  words,  mean- 
150 


PETRARCH  AND  BOCCACCIO 

ing  "  ten  days,"  and  is  explained  by  the  fact  that 
there  are  one  hundred  stories  in  all,  told  ten  at  a 
time,  on  ten  successive  days. 

Neither  the  various  stories  themselves  nor  the  idea 
of  uniting  them  in  a  framework  is  original  with  Boc- 
caccio. The  latter  device  was  especially  popular  in 
the  Orient,  and  is  illustrated  in  the  "  Seven  Wise 
Men,"  so  vastly  popular  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
The  sources  of  the  stories  in  the  "  Decameron  "  are 
various.  Such  tales  were  among  the  most  popular 
kinds  of  literature  of  the  times,  as  may  be  seen  in 
the  fabliaux  in  France  and  the  well-known  collec- 
tion, known  as  the  Novellino,  in  Italy.  Boccaccio 
gathers  them  from  all  sides,  and  adds  many  he  had 
heard  told  orally,  especially  anecdotes  of  his  con- 
temporaries. All  these  are  changed,  however,  by 
the  alchemy  of  his  own  genius,  and  become  original 
in  style,  in  delineation  of  character,  and  in  local 
color. 

The  framework  of  the  "  Decameron  "  is  as  fol- 
lows :  During  the  terrible  pestilence  which  raged  in 
Europe  in  1348,  a  famous  description  of  which  is 
given  in  the  opening  chapter  of  the  book,  seven 
young  ladies  and  three  young  men  meet  in  one  of 
the  churches  at  Florence,  agree  to  forsake  the  plague- 
stricken  city,  and  retire  to  their  villas  in  the  coun- 
151 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

try  to  forget  in  pleasant  converse  the  terrors  that 
surround  them.  The  plan  is  carried  out.  Each  day 
a  leader  is  chosen,  whom  all  must  obey.  After  break- 
fast they  betake  themselves  to  the  garden,  and  here 
on  green  lawns  covered  with  flowers,  beneath  shady 
trees  and  beside  clear-running  streams,  they  dance, 
play,  and  sing ;  and  then,  comfortably  seated  on  the 
soft  grass,  they  pass  the  hours  away  in  cheerful  con- 
versation and  story-telling. 

Each  one  of  thase  one  hundred  stories  has  an  indi- 
vidual character  of  its  own.  While  reading  them 
we  see  passing  in  picturesque  procession  before  our 
eyes  the  whole  of  Italian  society  of  the  times,  kings 
and  princes,  knights  and  peasants,  merchant,  artist, 
mechanic,  priest,  and  monk.  There  are  not  wanting 
earnest  and  serious  stories,  but  the  comic  and  satiri- 
cal element  prevails  ;  especially  are  the  vices  of  the 
clergy  scourged,  that  fruitful  source  of  all  mediaeval 
European  literature.  The  avaricious  and  licentious 
priests  and  monks  are  everywhere  held  up  to  the 
scornful  laughter  of  his  readers. 

All  this  is  expressed  in  an  admirable  prose  style, 
with  perfect  adaptation  of  local  color,  with  excellent 
delineation  of  character  and  insight  into  human  na- 
ture, and  with  the  inimitable  skill  in  narration  of 
the  born  story-teller. 

152 


PETRARCH  AND   BOCCACCIO 

The  popularity  of  Boccaccio  was,  and  is  still,  enor- 
mous, in  spite  of  the  immorality  of  certain  of  his 
stories.  He  is  read  to-day  in  elementary  schools  (in 
emendated  editions)  and  his  influence  on  modern 
literature  is  incalculable.  In  English  literature  alone 
most  of  the  great  writers  have  found  subjects  for 
poems,  stories,  and  dramas  in  the  "  Decameron,  " 
among  them  Chaucer,  Dryden,  Shakespere,  Keats, 
Tennyson,  and  Longfellow.1 

In  Italian  poetry  he  was  far  more  voluminous 
than  Petrarch.  Among  the  best  known  of  his  poems 
are  the  "  Vision  of  Love ;  "  "  Filostrato,"  which 
tells  the  story  of  Troilus  and  Cressida,  afterwards 
imitated  by  Chaucer  and  Shakespere;  and  the 
"  Theseid,"  imitated  by  Chaucer  in  his  "  Knight's 
Tales."  His  "  Ninfale  Fiesolana "  describes  the 
beautiful  suburbs  of  Florence,  while  his  pastoral 
poem,  "  Ameto,"  is  the  first  example  of  that  popu- 
lar branch  of  poetry,  which  found  its  highest 
development  in  Sannazaro's  "  Arcadia,"  Tasso's 
"  Aminta,"  and  Guarini's  "  Pastor  Fido." 

None  of  the  above  poems  are  easily  accessible 
in  English,  but  fortunately  we  have  several  of  Boc- 

1  A  selection  of  stories  from  the  Decameron  fit  for  the  general 
public  has  been  made  by  Joseph  Jacobs  and  published  by  the 
Macmillan  Co. 

153 


caccio's  sonnets  translated  by  Rossetti  so  beautifully 
that  his  versions  almost  surpass  the  originals. 
Two  of  these  sonnets  are  devoted  to  the  object  of 
his  early  love,  to  whom  he  gives  the  name  of  Fiam- 
metta.  He  first  records  his  feelings  on  hearing  her 
sing:  — 

Love  steered  my  course,  while  yet  the  sun  rode  high, 
On  Scylla's  waters  to  a  myrtle-grove : 
The  heaveu  was  still  and  the  sea  did  not  move ; 
Yet  now  and  then  a  little  breeze  went  by 
Stirring  the  tops  of  trees  against  the  sky  : 
And  then  I  heard  a  song  as  glad  as  love, 
So  sweet  that  never  yet  the  like  thereof 
Was  heard  in  any  mortal  company. 
"A nymph,  a  goddess,  or  an  angel  sings 
Unto  herself,  within  this  chosen  place, 

Of  ancient  loves  ;  "  so  said  I  at  that  sound. 
And  there  my  lady,  'mid  the  shadowings 

Of  myrtle-trees,  'mid  flowers  and  grassy  space, 
Singing  I  saw,  with  others  who  sat  round. 

The  second  sonnet  is  on  his  last  sight  of  Fiam- 
metta :  — 

Round  her  red  garland  and  her  golden  hair 

I  saw  a  fire  about  Fiammetta's  head  ; 

Thence  to  a  little  cloud  I  watched  it  fade, 
Than  silver  or  than  gold  more  brightly  fair ; 
And  like  a  pearl  that  a  gold  ring  doth  bear, 

Even  so  an  angel  sat  therein,  who  sped 

Alone  and  glorious  throughout  heaven  arrayed 
In  sapphires  and  in  gold  that  lit  the  air. 
154 


PETRARCH   AND   BOCCACCIO 

Then  I  rejoiced  as  hoping  happy  things, 

Who  rather  should  have  then  discerned  how  God 

Had  haste  to  make  my  lady  all  His  own, 
Even  as  it  came  to  pass.   And  with  these  stings 
Of  sorrow,  and  with  life's  most  weary  load 

I  dwell,  who  fain  would  be  where  she  is  gone. 

Boccaccio's  love  and  admiration  for  Dante  is 
well  shown  in  the  sonnet  written  as  an  inscription 
for  a  portrait  of  the  great  Florentine  :  — 

Dante  Alighieri,  a  dark  oracle 

Of  wisdom  and  of  art,  I  am ;  whose  mind 
Has  to  my  country  such  great  gifts  assigned 

That  men  account  my  powers  a  miracle. 

My  lofty  fancy  passed  as  low  as  Hell, 

As  high  as  Heaven,  secure  and  unconfined ; 
And  in  my  noble  book  doth  every  kind 

Of  earthly  lore  and  heavenly  doctrine  dwell. 

Renowned  Florence  was  my  mother,  —  nay, 
Stepmother  unto  me  her  piteous  son, 

Through  sin  of  cursed  slander's  tongue  and  tooth. 

Ravenna  sheltered  me  so  cast  away  ; 

My  body  is  with  her,  —  my  soul  with  One 
For  whom  no  envy  can  make  dim  the  truth. 

These  two  affections  which  made  so  large  a  part 
of  Boccaccio's  life,  —  love  for  his  master  in  the  art 
of  song,  and  love  for  Fiammetta,  —  are  joined  to- 
gether in  the  following  beautiful  sonnet :  — 

Dante,  if  thou  within  the  sphere  of  Love, 
As  I  believe,  remain'st  contemplating 
Beautiful  Beatrice,  whom  thou  didst  sing 

Ere  while,  and  so  wast  drawn  to  her  above  ; 
155 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Unless  from  false  life  true  life  thee  remove 
So  far  that  Love  's  forgotten,  let  me  bring 
One  prayer  before  thee  :  for  an  easy  thing 

This  were,  to  thee  whom  I  do  ask  it  of. 

I  know  that  where  all  joy  doth  most  abound 
In  the  Third  heaven,1  my  own  Fiammetta  sees 
The  grief  which  I  have  borne  since  she  is  dead* 

O  pray  her  (if  mine  image  be  not  drowned 
In  Lethe)  that  her  prayers  may  never  cease 
Until  I  reach  her  and  am  comforted. 

1  Heaven  of  Venus. 


156 


THE 


E  have  seen  in  a  preceding  chapter  how 
Petrarch  may  be  considered  as  the  founder  of  the 
Renaissance  in  Italy.  He  died  in  1374,  and  it  took 
a  century  and  more  to  complete  the  work  he  inau- 
gurated. The  whole  of  this  period,  while  of  immense 
importance  for  the  history  of  modern  civilization  in 
general,  is  chiefly  important  in  the  history  of  Italian 
literature,  not  so  much  for  what  it  produced  itself, 
as  for  the  fact  that  it  prepared  the  way  for  the  so- 
called  "  Golden  Age  "  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

It  may  be  well  here  to  distinguish,  as  far  as  pos- 
sible, between  the  terms  Renaissance,  Revival  of 
Learning,  and  Humanism,  —  terms  which  are  often 
used  vaguely,  and  at  times  synonymously.  Accord- 
ing to  the  consensus  of  recent  opinion,  however,  Re- 
naissance is  much  the  broadest  term,  and  is  applied 
to  the  whole  process  of  transition  from  the  mediaeval 
to  the  modern  world.  It  thus  includes  not  merely 
the  intellectual  re-birth  due  to  the  new  study  of  the 
157 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

ancient  classics,  but  those  other  equally  mighty 
forces  which  arose  at  the  same  time,  such  as  the 
decay  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire,  the  loss  of  pres- 
tige on  the  part  of  the  Papacy,  the  disappearance 
of  the  feudal  system  and  the  rise  of  free  cities,  the 
great  upheaval  of  the  Reformation,  the  discovery 
of  the  New  World,  and  the  invention  of  printing. 
The  Revival  of  Learning  is  more  strictly  applied  to 
the  intellectual,  philosophical  and  literary  movement 
incident  upon  and  caused  by  the  re-discovery  of 
Greek  and  Roman  literature  and  antiquities.  Hu- 
manism is  a  much  narrower  term  than  either  of 
the  above,  and  is  used  to  indicate  that  period  in  the 
Revival  of  Learning,  when  the  leadership  of  the 
process  above  mentioned  fell  into  the  hands  of  a 
narrow  class  of  technical  scholars  who  devoted  them- 
selves exclusively  to  the  study  and  the  teaching  of 
the  classic  authors,  and  whose  chief  efforts  were 
directed  to  the  restoration  of  the  noble  monuments 
of  antiquity,  whether  of  literature,  architecture  or 
sculpture. 

This  whole  movement  was  a  slow  process  of  de- 
velopment, —  the  material  (manuscripts,  statuary, 
inscriptions,  coins,  vases)  was  first  collected,  then 
carefully  studied,  and  finally  the  principles  of  mod- 
ern art  and  scholarship  were  laid  down,  based  on 
158 


THE   RENAISSANCE 

the  newly  discovered  treasures  of  the  ancient  world. 
When  the  process  was  completed,  the  Humanists  as 
a  class  lost  prestige  and  disappeared,  while  another 
class  arose,  that  of  the  poets,  painters,  and  sculptors, 
who,  entering  into  the  glorious  heritage  left  by  their 
predecessors,  produced  those  masterpieces  of  art 
and  literature  which  are  the  glory  of  the  sixteenth 
century  in  Italy,  and  among  the  priceless  treasures 
of  the  world. 

It  is  hard  for  us  to-day  to  get  an  idea  of  the  eager 
enthusiasm  and  intense  delight  in  study  of  these 
men  of  the  Renaissance ;  they  must  have  felt  as 
Wordsworth  did  when  he  cried  out :  — 

Bliss  was  it  in  those  days  to  be  alive, 
But  to  be  young-  was  very  heaven. 

The  scholars  of  the  time  enjoyed  an  immense  popu- 
larity. A  new  caste  of  society  arose,  not  dependent 
on  birth  or  wealth,  but  on  learning  and  intelligence. 
Princes  and  cities  sought  for  their  services,  for 
which  they  paid  large  sums.  Everywhere  they  were 
received  as  equal  to  the  noblest  in  the  land.  At 
the  feudal  court  of  Ferrara,  in  the  republic  of 
Florence,  under  the  Papacy  at  Rome,  and  in  the 
monarchy  of  Naples,  the  Humanists  occupied  first 
rank.  They  became  secretaries  to  the  Pope,  ambas- 
sadors of  kings  and  princes,  and  chancellors  of  the 
159 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

republics.  The  cities  of  their  birth  were  proud  to 
claim  them,  and  the  honors  formerly  bestowed  upon 
saints  now  fell  to  their  lot. 

At  first  these  Humanists  were  wandering  teach- 
ers, moving  about  from  city  to  city,  preaching  the 
faith  that  was  in  them  after  the  manner  and  often 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  the  early  Methodist  circuit 
riders.  Afterward,  however,  they  settled  down  in 
some  intellectual  centre,  where  they  lectured  in  the 
university  or  held  some  public  office.  The  moral 
and  religious  character  of  these  men  was  not  in  gen- 
eral very  high.  Although  their  writings  abound  in 
lofty  sentiments,  their  private  life  was  irregular,  if 
not  immoral.  They  were  for  the  most  part  vain 
to  excess,  insincere,  given  to  flattery,  and  many  of 
them  openly  acknowledged  their  illegitimate  chil- 
dren. Such  books  as  the  "  Hermaphroditus "  of 
Panormita  and  the  "  Facetiae  "  of  Poggio  were  read 
and  praised  by  all. 

Humanism  is  in  a  certain  sense  a  revolt  not  only 
against  the  scholastic  philosophy  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
but  against  the  authority  of  Christianity  itself. 
The  philosophers  of  antiquity  were  sceptics,  and 
the  natural  effect  of  their  writings  on  the  Human- 
ists was  to  cultivate  within  them  a  spirit  of  scepti- 
cism. Thus  the  scholars  of  the  Renaissance  for  the 
160 


THE  RENAISSANCE 

most  part  scorned  the  traditions  and  the  supersti- 
tions  of  the  church,  hated  the  monks,  and  either 
disbelieved  in,  or  "  slept  out  the  thought "  of  the  life 
to  come.  For  them  the  joy  of  this  lif  e  was  enough, 
for  in  nothing  does  the  contrast  between  the  Mid- 
dle Ages  and  the  Renaissance  show  itself  so  much 
as  in  the  different  ways  of  looking  at  life.  War, 
famine,  pestilence,  oppression,  had  made  life  to  the 
men  of  the  Middle  Ages  a  long  pilgrimage  over  a 
dreary  desert.  They  turned  their  eyes  to  the  world 
to  come,  seeking  there  a  reward  and  comfort  for 
their  present  sorrows.  St.  Bernard  expressed  the 
feeling  of  all  his  contemporaries  in  the  well-known 
hymn :  — 

Brief  life  is  here  oar  portion, 

Brief  sorrow,  short-lived  care  ; 
The  life  that  knows  no  ending1, 

The  tearless  life  is  there. 
0  happy  retribution ! 

Short  toil,  eternal  rest ; 
For  mortals  and  for  sinners, 

A  mansion  with  the  blest. 

Now,  however,  a  new  spirit  arose,  the  world  was 
re-discovered,  the  joy  in  life  so  characteristic  of  the 
ancients  once  more  was  cultivated.  Hence  came  a 
revival  of  luxury  which  manifested  itself  in  festiv- 
ities of  all  sorts,  in  gorgeous  garments,  costly  jewels, 
161 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

and  stately  palaces,  adorned  with  almost  barbaric 
splendor.  No  wonder  that  with  all  these  things  to 
dazzle  the  senses,  the  necessity  of  a  future  life  was 
not  keenly  felt.  Earthly  fame  now  took  the  place 
of  a  desire  for  the  glory  of  heaven.  Dante  had  him- 
self been  touched  with  that  "  last  infirmity  of  noble 
minds,"  but  yet  he  says  :  — 

Non  e  il  mondan  rumore  altro  cite  un  fiato 
Di  vento,  ch'  or  vien  quinc'  ed  or  vien  quindi, 

E  niuta  nome,  perchd  niuta  lato.1 

Now  the  Humanists  made  fame  the  chief  object 
of  their  lives,  —  nay,  they  sought  it  not  only  for 
themselves,  but  they  claimed  to  possess  the  ability 
to  bestow  it  on  others,  a  claim  which  for  many  of 
them  became  the  chief  instrument  in  the  acquisition 
of  wealth  and  power. 

Yet,  if  the  Humanists  were  irreligious,  they  did 
not  dare  openly  to  revolt  against  the  church. 
They  had  no  desire  to  become  martyrs.  They 
simply  were  indifferent.  Besides,  the  whole  life 
of  the  times  was  inextricably  mixed  up  with  the 
outward  observances  of  the  church.  Many  of  the 

1  Naught  is  this  mundane  rumor  but  a  breath 

Of  wind,  that  comes  now  this  way  and  now  that, 
And  changes  name,  because  it  changes  side. 

162 


THE   RENAISSANCE 

Humanists  themselves  belonged  to  the  clergy,  and 
still  more  had  relatives  there.  Hence  it  came  to 
pass  that  the  spasmodic  revolt  of  Savonarola  found 
no  abiding  place  in  the  hearts  of  the  Italians. 

The  Humanistic  movement  began  at  Florence, 
which  indeed  remained  its  chief  centre  during  the 
whole  period.  Later,  however,  it  spread  through 
nearly  all  the  chief  cities  of  Italy,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Genoa  and  Venice,  although  the  latter 
became  the  great  centre  for  printing.  In  Ferrara 
the  movement  was  not  so  learned,  and  as  we  shall 
see  later,  was  more  closely  connected  with  literature 
in  the  vernacular.  After  Florence,  the  two  most 
important  centres  of  the  Renaissance  were  Rome 
and  Naples.  In  the  former,  such  Popes  as  Nicholas 
V.,  Julius  II.,  and  Leo  X.,  entered  into  the  move- 
ment with  enthusiasm ;  Nicholas  V.  sought  to  add 
to  the  glory  of  the  Roman  Church  the  glory  of 
classical  antiquity,  hoping  thus  to  strengthen  the 
tottering  foundations  of  the  ecclesiastical  authority. 
His  chief  motive  was  a  personal  one.  Not  merely 
was  he  inspired  by  a  desire  for  the  glory  of  God, 
but  he  desired  to  be  great  and  famous  himself  as  a 
patron  of  art  and  learning.  The  ch;ef  results  of 
Humanism  in  Rome  were  the  translation  of  a  large 
number  of  Greek  authors  into  Latin,  the  founding 
163 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

of  great  libraries  and  museums,  and  the  building  of 
magnificent  churches.  The  movement  reached  its 
climax  under  Leo  X.,  a  Medici  and  son  of  Lorenzo 
the  Magnificent. 

In  Naples  the  movement  came  latest  of  all.  Here 
it  was  largely  a  matter  of  imitation.  Yet  through 
men  like  Lorenzo  Valla,  Panormita  and  Pontano 
were  laid  the  foundations  of  scientific  grammar  and 
of  literary  criticism. 

Two  of  the  earliest  followers  of  Petrarch,  belong- 
ing, indeed,  to  the  same  generation,  were  the  Flor- 
entines, Luigi  Marsigli  and  Coluccio  Salutato.  The 
former  was  an  Augustinian  friar,  who  combined  a 
love  for  theology  with  a  love  for  the  new  learning, 
then  fast  absorbing  the  attention  of  all  men.  In 
the  cloister  of  Santo  Spirito,  which  contained  the 
library  of  Boccaccio,  he  gathered  about  him  a  group 
of  Florentines,  young  and  old,  who  were  themselves 
to  be  later  the  torch-bearers  of  classical  learning. 
Still  more  important  was  Salutato,  who,  having  been 
appointed  chancellor  of  the  Signoria  of  Florence, 
began  the  long  line  of  learned  men  who  for  an 
hundred  years  were  at  the  head  of  state  affairs 
in  Florence,  and  who  brought  the  doctrines  of  the 
new  learning  to  bear  upon  the  transaction  of  public 
business.  Salutato  was  kind  toward  all  young 
164 


THE  RENAISSANCE 

students,  whom  he  helped  in  many  ways,  gaining 
thus  the  title  of  "  father  of  scholars." 

Among  the  disciples  of  Marsigli  and  Salutato 
may  be  mentioned  Leonardo  Bruni  (1369-1444), 
called  Aretino  from  his  birth-place  Arezzo,  who 
after  having  been  secretary  of  the  Pope  at  Rome, 
succeeded  Salutato  as  chancellor  in  Florence.  His 
chief  literary  work  was  the  translation  of  Greek 
authors  into  Latin.  Niccolo  Niccoli  is  an  excellent 
example  of  the  enthusiastic  scholar  of  the  Renais- 
sance. The  son  of  a  Florentine  merchant,  he  spent 
all  his  patrimony  in  the  acquisition  and  copying 
of  new  manuscripts,  and  had  to  receive  pecuniary 
aid  from  Cosimo  de'  Medici.  Like  Chaucer's  Clerk, 
he  had  — 

but  litel  gold  in  cofre ; 

But  all  that  he  mighte  of  his  freendes  hente, 
On  bokes  and  on  lerninge  he  it  spente. 

Not  a  writer  himself,  Niccoli's  influence  was  purely 
personal.  His  books,  after  serving  his  friends, 
were  purchased  at  his  death  by  Cosimo  de'  Medici, 
and  formed  the  nucleus  of  the  famous  Laurentian 
library  in  Florence. 

One  of   the  most   distinguished  of   the  earlier 
Humanists  was  Poggio  Bracciolini   (1380-1459) 
who  was  the  true  disciple  of  Petrarch  in  his  eager 
165 


THE   GEEAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

and  successful  search  after  new  manuscripts.  The 
record  of  his  achievements  in  this  respect  is  of 
great  interest.  He  himself  traveled  abroad  even 
as  far  as  England.  Everywhere  he  went  he  in- 
quired after  manuscripts.  As  secretary  of  the  pope 
he  resided  hi  Rome  many  years  and  devoted  him- 
self eagerly  to  the  discovery  and  investigation  of 
the  antiquities  of  the  world-city.  His  book,  "  Urbis 
Romae  Descriptio,"  is  the  first  work  on  the  subject. 
In  a  similar  way  the  "  Roma  Instaurata  "  of  Flavio 
Biondo  (1388-1468),  founded  the  subject  of 
Roman  topography. 

The  most  typical  example  of  the  Humanists,  how- 
ever, was  the  learned,  but  not  very  amiable  Fran- 
cesco Filelfo  (1398—1481),  who  was  equally  famous 
as  a  Greek  and  a  Latin  scholar.  Having  gone  to 
Constantinople  on  business  he  learned  Greek  there, 
married  the  daughter  of  Johannes  Chrysoloras,  and, 
returning  to  Italy,  began  his  wandering  life  as  a 
professor  of  Greek  and  Latin.  At  Florence  he 
was  hailed  as  the  greatest  living  Greek  scholar  and 
the  most  distinguished  of  modern  Latin  poets.  His 
lectures  were  attended  by  crowds  who  came  hither 
from  all  parts  of  Italy  and  even  from  foreign  lands. 
Among  his  students  were  Popes  Nicholas  V.  and 
Pius  II.  From  Florence  he  went  to  Milan,  where  he 
166 


THE   RENAISSANCE 

received  a  large  salary  from  the  Duke,  in  return  for 
which  he  wrote  the  most  extravagant  eulogies  of  his 
princely  patron.  Later,  when  he  visited  Naples 
and  Rome,  he  was  received  with  unbounded  en- 
thusiasm, his  progress  resembling  a  triumphal  pro- 
cession. Filelfo,  while  one  of  the  greatest  scholars 
of  the  Renaissance,  was  one  of  the  most  contemp- 
tible of  men.  He  was  fickle,  mercenary,  and  of 
incredible  vanity,  while  his  quarrelsome  disposition 
constantly  involved  him  in  unseemly  broils. 

Of  far  nobler  character  was  Marsiglio  Ficino 
(1433-1499),  son  of  the  physician  of  Cosimo  de' 
Medici,  who  had  the  young  man  educated  with  the 
intention  of  placing  him  at  the  head  of  the  Platonic 
Academy  which  he  had  founded. 

A  peculiar  charm  attaches  to  another  member 
of  this  Academy,  the  young,  beautiful,  nobly-born 
and  marvellously  learned  Pico  della  Mirandola 
(1464—1494),  the  intellectual  ideal  of  whose  short 
life  is  summed  up  in  his  often  quoted  phrase :  "  Philo- 
sophia  veritatem  quaerit,  scientia  invenit,  religio 
possidet."1 

The  greatest  of  all  Humanists,  however,  was 
Angelo  Ambrogini  (1454-1494),  called  Politian, 

1  Philosophy  seeks  truth,  knowledge  finds  it,  and  religion  pos- 
sesses it. 

167 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

from  his  native  town  of  Montepulciano.  His  lec- 
tures on  subjects  of  classical  criticism  were  not 
only  enormously  popular  in  his  own  day,  but  are 
still  of  the  greatest  value,  many  of  his  annotations 
and  emendations  remaining  the  standard  down  to 
the  present  time. 

Glancing  over  the  fifteenth  century  as  a  whole, 
we  see  that  a  vast  advance  has  been  made  over 
Petrarch  and  Boccaccio.  The  whole  distance  be- 
tween antiquity  and  the  Middle  Ages  has  been 
bridged  ;  not  only  classical  scholarship,  but  archae- 
ology, topography  and  literary  criticism  have  been 
founded  and  brought  to  perfection.  In  short,  an- 
cient civilization  has  once  more  been  brought  to 
life,  and,  uniting  with  the  elements  of  Romanticism 
introduced  by  Christianity,  has  produced  the  mod- 
ern spirit.  It  is  worthy  of  note  that  all  this  was 
accomplished  by  Italy,  alone  and  without  aid. 
While  the  brilliant  movement  was  going  on  there, 
the  rest  of  Europe  was  still  sitting  in  darkness, 
and  only  when  the  Renaissance  was  about  to  end 
in  Italy  did  it  begin  in  Germany,  England,  and 
France. 

During  the  greater  part  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
whatever  literature  there  was  in  prose  and  poetry 
was  in  Latin,  which  was  looked  upon  by  the 
168 


THE   RENAISSANCE 

Humanists  as  their  true  mother-tongue,  of  which 
Italian  was  only  a  corruption,  fit  for  the  uses  of 
everyday  life,  but  not  fit  to  be  the  medium  of  lit- 
erature. At  the  beginning  of  the  century,  some 
even  went  so  far  as  to  despise  the  Italian  works  of 
Petrarch  and  Boccaccio,  and  even  the  "Divine 
Comedy"  of  Dante.  Such  a  feeling,  however, 
never  became  general  in  Florence,  where,  indeed, 
the  chair  on  Dante  begun  by  Boccaccio  in  1373 
lasted  till  1472. 

And  yet,  while  Latin  was  the  language  chiefly 
cultivated  in  the  fifteenth  century,  it  had  a  mighty 
influence  on  Italian  literature  of  the  following 
century.  The  careful  study  of  the  great  Latin 
writers,  especially  of  Cicero,  the  critical  and  gram- 
matical labors  of  such  men  as  Valla  and  Politian, 
affecting  first  the  Latin  style  of  these  and  other 
writers,  by  a  natural  process  was  transferred  to 
Italian  style,  as  soon  as  that  language  became  the 
chief  medium  of  the  literature. 

A  literature  in  the  vernacular  came  more  and 
more  to  the  front  as  the  fifteenth  century  wore  away. 
Great  credit  for  the  rehabilitation  of  Italian  as  a 
literary  language  is  due  to  Leon  Battista  Albert! 
(1404-1472),  that  shining  example  of  the  type 
uomo  universo  so  characteristic  of  the  Renaissance. 
169 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

He  not  only  wrote  most  of  his  works  in  Italian, 
but  on  all  occasions  boldly  defended  the  rights  of 
the  Tuscan  tongue  to  be  regarded  as  the  natural 
medium  of  literary  art ;  and  it  was  largely  due  to 
his  initiative  that  the  poetical  tournament  took 
place  in  the  Cathedral  of  Florence,  October  22, 
1401,  in  which  the  poems  submitted  were  to  be 
composed  in  the  Italian  tongue. 

The  impulse  given  by  Alberti  was  carried  to  a 
successful  conclusion  by  Politian  and  Lorenzo  de' 
Medici,  who  not  only  advocated  the  use  of  Italian, 
but  produced  genuine  literature  of  a  high  quality, 
and  thus  opened  the  way  for  the  great  writers  of 
the  following  century. 

During  the  whole  of  the  fifteenth  century,  side 
by  side  with  the  learned  movement,  there  existed  a 
humble  form  of  literature  among  the  people.  This 
Volkspoesie  was  of  two  sorts,  one  profane,  the 
other  religious.  The  former  consisted  largely  of 
songs,  often  humorous,  often  coarse,  but  at  times 
full  of  naive  freshness  and  grace,  as  in  the  follow- 
ing lines  translated  by  Symonds :  — 

O,  swallow,  swallow,  flying  through  the  air, 
Turn,  turn,  I  prithee,  from  thy  flight  above. 
Give  me  one  feather  from  thy  wing  so  fair, 
For  I  will  write  a  letter  to  my  love. 

170 


THE  RENAISSANCE 

When  I  have  written  it  and  made  it  clear, 

I  '11  give  thee  back  thy  feather,  swallow  dear ; 

When  I  have  written  it  on  paper  white, 

1 11  make,  I  swear,  thy  missing  feather  right ; 

When  once  't  is  written  on  fair  leaves  of  gold, 

I  '11  give  thee  back  thy  wings  and  flight  so  bold. 

Such  songs  were  lifted  from  the  lower  ranks  of 
society  and  given  a  permanent  place  in  literature, 
by  Lionardo  Giustiniani  (1388-1446),  many  of 
whose  lyrics  are  popular,  even  to-day.  Giustiniani 
likewise  cultivated  the  branch  of  popular  poetry, 
known  as  Laudi  and  Sacred  Representations, 
which,  as  we  have  already  seen,  were  a  prominent 
feature  of  literature  in  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth 
centuries.  These  religious  songs  were  enormously 
popular  in  the  fifteenth  century,  for,  notwithstand- 
ing the  pagan  ideas  of  the  Humanists,  and  the 
pomp  and  luxury  of  life  among  the  rich  and  noble, 
religion  still  held  sway  over  the  hearts  of  the  peo- 
ple. In  the  beginning  of  the  century  a  movement 
of  repentance,  similar  to  those  of  the  thirteenth 
and  fourteenth  centuries,  already  described,  swept 
over  Italy.  The  Laudi  were  the  literary  repre- 
sentatives of  this  movement,  and  often  showed  real 
lyric  beauty,  especially  those  written  by  Giusti- 
niani, Lorenzo,  Politian,  Belcari,  and  Benivieni. 
As  an  example  of  this  interesting  kind  of  litera- 
171 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

tnre,  we  give  here  a  Lauda  by  Girolamo  Benivieni 
(1453-1542),  translated  by  Symonds :  — 

Jesus,  whoso  •with  Thee 
Hangs  not  in  pain  and  loss, 
Pierced  on  the  cruel  cross, 
At  peace  shall  never  be. 

Lord,  unto  me  be  kind ; 
Give  me  that  peace  of  mind, 
Which  in  this  world  so  blind 
And  false,  dwells  but  with  Thee. 

Give  me  that  strife  and  pain, 
Apart  from  which  't  were  vain 
Thy  love  on  earth  to  gain 
Or  seek  a  share  in  Thee. 

If,  Lord,  with  Thee  alone 
Heart's  peace  and  love  be  known, 
My  heart  shall  be  Thine  own, 
Ever  to  rest  with  Thee. 

Here  in  my  heart  be  lit 
Thy  fire,  to  feed  on  it, 
Till  burning  bit  by  bit 
It  dies  to  live  with  Thee. 

Jesus,  whoso  with  Thee 
Hangs  not  in  pain  or  loss, 
Pierced  on  the  cruel  cross, 
At  peace  shall  never  be. 

It  was  the  combination  of  this  popular  poetry 
with  the  results  of  the  classical  revival  and  the 
172 


THE  RENAISSANCE 

influence  of  Petrarch  and  Dante,  which  produced 
the  efflorescence  of  Italian  poetry  in  the  sixteenth 
century. 

The  first  important  writer  to  combine  these  ele- 
ments was  Angelo  Politian,  already  mentioned  as 
the  greatest  of  the  Humanists  and  one  of  the  most 
graceful  poets  in  Italian  literature.  He  was  born 
in  Montepulciano  in  1454.  He  studied  in  Florence 
under  Marsiglio  Ficino,  and  the  Greek  Argyro- 
poulos,  being  the  companion  in  study  of  Lorenzo  de' 
Medici,  who  afterwards  became  his  friend  and  pro- 
tector. The  friendship  thus  begun  between  the 
humble  scholar  and  the  wealthy  citizen-prince  was 
genuine  on  both  sides,  and  lasted  till  the  death  of 
Lorenzo  in  1492.  Politian  soon  became  known  as 
the  foremost  scholar  of  his  tune,  and  was  looked 
upon  as  a  prodigy  of  learning.  For  the  skill  with 
which  he  translated  a  part  of  the  "  Hiad "  into 
Latin,  his  master,  Ficino,  called  him  the  "  Homeric 
Youth."  His  Italian  poetry  is  marked  by  a  perfec- 
tion of  style  hitherto  unknown  in  Italian.  He  had 
no  originality,  no  creative  power  —  everything  he 
wrote  was  imitation,  yet  so  completely  fused  to- 
gether was  what  he  borrowed  that  it  seemed  to  be 
the  creation  of  his  own  mind.  He  used  his  knowledge 
of  Greek  and  Latin  as  well  as  of  early  Italian  poetry 
173 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

with  consummate  skill.  A  good  example  of  Poli- 
tian's  style  is  seen  in  the  following  Dance- 
Song  :  — 

I  went  a-roaming,  maidens,  one  bright  day, 
In  a  green  garden  in  mid-month  of  May. 

Violets  and  lilies  grew  on  every  side 

Mid  the  green  grass,  and  young  flowers  wonderful, 

Golden  and  white  and  red  and  azure-eyed ; 

Toward  which  I  stretched  my  hands,  eager  to  pull 

Plenty  to  make  my  fair  curls  beautiful, 

To  crown  my  rippling  curls  with  garlands  gay. 

I  went  a-roaming,  maidens,  one  bright  day, 
In  a  green  garden  in  mid-mouth  of  May. 

But  when  my  lap  was  full  of  flowers,  I  spied 
Roses  at  last,  roses  of  every  hue  ; 
Therefore  I  ran  to  pluck  their  ruddy  pride, 
Because  their  perfume  was  so  sweet  and  true 
That  all  my  soul  went  forth  with  pleasure  new, 
With  yearning  and  desire  too  soft  to  say. 

I  went  a-roaming,  maidens,  one  bright  day, 
In  a  green  garden  in  mid-month  of  May. 

I  gazed  and  gazed.   Hard  task  it  were  to  tell 
How  lovely  were  the  roses  in  that  hour ; 
One  was  but  peeping  from  her  verdant  shell, 
And  some  were  faded,  some  were  scarce  in  flower. 
Then  Love  said :  Go,  pluck  from  the  blooming  bower 
Those  that  thou  seest  ripe  upon  the  spray. 
I  went  a-roaming,  maidens,  one  bright  day, 
In  a  green  garden  in  mid-month  of  May. 
174 


POLITIAN 


THE   RENAISSANCE 

For  when  the  full  rose  quits  her  tender  sheath, 
When  she  is  sweetest  and  most  fair  to  see, 
Then  is  the  time  to  place  her  in  thy  wreath, 
Before  her  beauty  and  her  freshness  flee. 
Gather  thee,  therefore,  roses  with  great  glee, 
Sweet  girls,  or  ere  their  perfume  pass  away. 

I  went  a-roaming,  maidens,  one  bright  day, 
In  a  green  garden  in  mid-month  of  May.1 

His  two  best  poems,  however,  are  the  "  Orfeo," 
and  the  "  Stanzas  "  on  the  tournament  held  in  1475 
by  Giuliano  de'  Medici,  in  honor  of  his  lady  Si- 
monetta.  The  "  Orfeo,"  recited  in  1471  at  a  festi- 
val held  to  welcome  Galeazzo  Sforza  to  Mantua, 
relates  the  well-known  story  of  how  Eurydice  died 
and  descended  into  Hades,  how  her  husband  Or- 
pheus followed  her  thither,  obtained  her  release 
on  condition  of  not  looking  upon  her  until  she  is 
among  the  living,  and  how,  having  broken  this  con- 
dition, Eurydice  was  lost  to  him  forever,  and  he 
himself  torn  to  pieces  by  the  Bacchantes,  enraged 
at  his  vow  never  to  love  woman  again. 

Equally  famous  are  the  "  Stanzas  "  above  alluded 
to,  in  which  a  description  of  the  tournament  held 
by  Giuliano  de'  Medici  in  1475  was  to  be  given. 
Part  only,  however,  of  the  poem  was  finished,  but 

1  Symonds. 
175 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

this  part,  containing  masterpieces  of  description  of 
the  beauty  of  Nature  and  of  woman,  full  of  exquisite 
music  and  written  in  an  elegant  and  refined  style, 
is  justly  esteemed  as  the  very  flower  of  poetic  art 
of  the  Renaissance.  The  following  stanzas  of  this 
poem  describe  the  island  of  Cyprus,  the  home  of 
Venus :  — 

Now,  in  his  proud  revenge  exulting  high, 
Through  fields  of  air,  Love  speeds  his  rapid  flight, 
And  in  his  mother's  realms,  the  treacherous  boy 
Rejoins  his  kindred  band  of  flutterers  light ; 
That  realm,  of  each  bewitching  grace  the  joy, 
Where  Beauty  wreaths  with  sweets  her  tresses  bright, 
Where  Zephyr  importunes,  on  wanton  wing, 
Flora's  coy  charms,  and  aids  her  flowers  to  spring. 

Thine,  Erato !  to  Love's  a  kindred  name ! 
Of  Love's  domain  instruct  the  bard  to  tell ; 
To  thee,  chaste  Muse !  alone  't  is  given  to  claim 
Free  ingress  there,  secure  from  every  spell ; 
Thou  rul'st  of  soft  amours  the  vocal  frame, 
And  Cupid,  oft,  as  childish  thoughts  impel 
To  thrill  with  wanton  touch  its  golden  strings, 
Behind  his  winged  back  his  quiver  flings. 

A  mount  o'erlooks  the  charming  Cyprian  Isle, 
Whence,  toward  the  morn's  first  blush,  the  eye  sublime 
Might  reach  the  sevenfold  course  of  mighty  Nile ; 
But  ne'er  may  mortal  foot  that  prospect  climb; 
A  verdant  hill  o'erhangs  its  highest  pile, 
Whose  base,  a  plain,  that,  laughs  in  vernal  prime ; 
176 


THE   RENAISSANCE 

Where  gentlest  airs,  midst  flowers  and  herbage  gay, 
Urge  o'er  the  quivering  blade  their  wanton  way. 

A  wall  of  gold  secures  the  utmost  bound, 
And,  dark  with  viewless  shade,  a  woody  vale ; 
There,  on  each  branch,  with  youthful  foliage  crown' d, 
Some  feathered  songster  chants  his  amorous  tale ; 
And  joined  in  murmurs  soft,  with  grateful  sound, 
Two  rivulets  glide  pellucid,  through  the  dale ; 
Beside  whose  streams,  this  sweet,  that  bitter  found, 
His  shafts  of  gold  Love  tempers  for  the  wound. 

No  flow 'rets  here  decline  their  withered  heads, 

Blanched  with  cold  snows,  or  fringed  with  hoar-frost  sere ; 

No  Winter,  wide,  his  icy  mantle  spreads ; 

No  tender  scion  rends  the  tempest  drear. 

Here  Spring  eternal  smiles ;  nor  varying  leads 

His  change  quadruple,  the  revolving  year : 

Spring  with  a  thousand  blooms  her  brows  entwined, 

Her  auburn  locks  light  fluttering  in  the  wind. 

The  inferior  band  of  Loves,  a  childish  throng, 
Tyrants  of  none,  save  hearts  of  vulgar  kind, 
Each  other  gibing  with  loquacious  tongue, 
On  stridulous  stones  their  barbed  arrows  grind ; 
Whilst  Pranks  and  Wiles,  the  rivulet's  marge  along, 
Ply  at  the  whirling  wheel  their  task  assigned ; 
And  on  the  sparkling  stone,  in  copious  dews, 
Vain  Hopes  and  vain  Desires  the  lymph  effuse. 

There  pleasing  Pain  and  fluttering  fond  Delight, 
Sweet  broils,  caresses  sweet,  together  go ; 
Sorrows  that  hang  their  heads  in  doleful  plight, 
And  swell  with  tears  the  bitter  streamlet's  flow; 
177 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Paleness  all  wan,  and  dreaming  still  of  slight, 
Affection  fond,  with  Leanness,  Fear  and  Woe ; 
Suspicion,  casting  round  his  peering  eye 
And  o'er  the  midway  dancing  wanton  Joy. 

Pleasure  with  Beauty  gambols :  light  in  air 
Bliss  soars  inconstant ;  Anguish  sullen  sits ; 
Blind  Error  flutters  bat-like,  here  and  there, 
And  Frenzy  raves,  and  strikes  his  thigh  by  fits ; 
Repentance,  of  past  folly  late  aware, 
Her  fruitless  penance  there  ne'er  intermits ; 
Her  hand  with  gore  fell  Cruelty  distains, 
And  seeks  Despair  in  death  to  end  his  pains. 

Gestures  and  nods,  that  inmost  thoughts  impart, 

Illusions  silent,  smiles  that  guile  intend, 

The  glance,  the  look,  that  speak  th'  impassioned  heart; 

Mid  flowery  haunts,  for  youth  their  toils  suspend : 

And  never  from  his  griefs  Complaint  apart, 

Prone  on  his  palm  his  face  is  seen  to  bend ; 

Now  hence  —  now  thence  —  in  unrestrained  guise, 

Licentiousness  on  wing  capricious  flies. 

Such  ministers  thy  progeny  attend, 

Venus !  fair  mother  of  each  fluttering  power : 

A  thousand  odors  from  those  fields  ascend, 

While  Zephyr  brings  in  dews  the  pearly  shower, 

Fanned  by  his  flight,  what  time  their  incense  blend 

The  lily,  violet,  rose,  or  other  flower ; 

And  views,  with  conscious  pride,  the  exulting  scene, 

Its  mingled  azure,  vermeil,  pale  and  green. 

The  trembling  pansy  virgin  fears  alarm ; 
Downward,  her  modest  eye  she  blushing  bends ; 
178 


THE  RENAISSANCE 

The  laughing  rose,  more  specious,  bold  and  warm, 
ler  ardent  bosom  ne'er  from  Sol  defends ; 
Here  from  the  capsule  bursts  each  opening  charm, 
Full-blown,  th'  invited  hand  she  here  attends ; 
Here  she,  who  late  with  fires  delightful  glowed, 
Droops  languid,  with  her  hues  the  mead  bestrewed. 

In  showers  descending,  courts  th'  enamoured  air 
The  violet's  yellow,  purple,  snowy  hues ; 
Hyacinth !  thy  woes  thy  bosom's  marks  declare ; 
His  form  Narcissus  in  the  stream  yet  views ; 
In  snowy  vest,  but  fringed  with  purple  glare, 
Pale  Clytia  still  the  parting  sun  pursues ; 
Fresh  o'er  Adonis,  Venus  pours  her  woes ; 
Acanthus  smiles ;  her  lovers  Crocus  shows.1 

Closely  connected  with  Politian,  not  only  by  ties 
of  intimate  friendship,  but  as  a  poet,  is  Lorenzo 
de'  Medici  (1448-1492),  called  the  Magnificent, 
son  of  Piero  and  grandson  of  Cosimo.  He  is  one 
of  the  most  interesting  characters  of  this  wonderful 
age.  He  was  a  consummate  statesman,  who  man- 
aged to  keep  the  balance  of  power  in  Italy  during 
the  last  years  of  his  life,  and  thus  gave  to  Florence 
that  peace  and  prosperity  so  necessary  to  the  develop- 
ment of  culture  and  literature.  And  yet  while  he 
was  a  man  of  affairs,  he  was  endowed  with  a  love  for 
all  forms  of  art,  especially  of  literature.  He  gathered 

1  From  Koscoe's  translation  of  Sismondi's  Literature  of  the 
South  of  Europe. 

179 


THE   GEEAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

about  him  either  at  his  palace  in  the  city,  or  in  his 
villas  near  Florence,  the  most  distinguished  men  of 
the  day.  His  chief  importance  for  us,  however,  is 
as  a  poet.  While  not  so  polished  as  Politian,  he 
was  more  original,  and  stood  closer  to  the  spirit  of 
the  people.  He  was  an  ardent  admirer  of  the  early 
Italian  poets,  not  only  of  Dante  and  Petrarch,  but 
of  the  humbler  writers  of  popular  songs.  His  own 
poetry  is  of  two  kinds,  —  profane  and  religious. 
The  influence  of  Petrarch  is  seen  in  the  following 
sonnet  on  the  violet :  — 

Thy  beauty,  gentle  violet,  was  born 

Where  for  the  look  of  Love  I  first  was  fain, 
And  my  bright  stream  of  bitter  tears  was  rain 

That  beauty  to  accomplish  and  adorn. 

Aud  such  desire  was  from  compassion  born, 

That  from  the  happy  nook  where  thou  wert  lain 
The  fair  hand  gathered  thee,  and  not  in  vain, 

For  by  my  own  it  willed  thee  to  be  borne. 

And  as  to  me  appears,  thou  would 'st  return 
Once  more  to  that  fair  hand,  whence  thee  npon 
My  naked  breast  I  have  securely  set : 

The  naked  breast  that  doth  desire  and  burn, 

And  holds  thee  in  her  heart's  place,  that  hath  gone 
To  dwell  where  thou  wert  late,  my  Violet.1 

The  longest  and  most  important  of  Lorenzo's  love- 

1  Garnett,  in  his  History  of  Italian  Literature,  published  by 
Appleton  &  Co. 

180 


THE   RENAISSANCE 

songs  are  contained  in  the  sequence  of  stanzas  known 
as  Selve^  from  which  we  quote  the  following  descrip- 
tion of  his  first  meeting  with  his  lady  Lucrezia. 

What  time  the  chain  was  forced  which  then  I  bore, 

Air,  earth,  and  heavens  were  linked  in  one  delight ; 

The  air  was  never  so  serene  before, 

The  sun  ne'er  shed  such  pure  and  tranquil  light ; 

Young  leaves  and  flowers  upon  the  grassy  floor 

Gladdened  the  earth  where  ran  a  streamlet  bright, 

Where  Venus  in  her  father's  bosom  lay 

And  smiled  from  heaven  upon  the  spot  that  day. 

She  from  her  brows  divine  and  amorous  breast 

Took  with  both  hands  roses  of  many  a  hue, 

And  showered  them  through  the  heavens  that  slept  in  rest, 

Covering  my  lady  with  their  gracious  dew  ; 

Jove,  full  of  gladness,  on  that  day  released 

The  ears  of  men  that  they  might  hear  the  true 

Echoes  of  melody  and  dance  divine, 

Which  fell  from  heaven  in  songs  and  sounds  benign. 

Fair  women  to  that  music  moved  their  feet, 
Inflamed  with  gentle  fire  by  Love's  breath  fanned  : 
Behold  yon  lover  with  his  lady  sweet  — 
Her  hand  long  yearned  for  clasped  in  his  loved  hand ; 
Their  sighs,  their  looks,  which  pangs  of  longing  cheat ; 
Brief  words  that  none  but  they  can  understand ; 
The  flowers  that  she  lets  fall,  resumed  and  pressed, 
With  kisses  covered,  to  his  head  or  breast. 

1  From  selva,  a  forest ;  so  called  because  the  mind  of  the  poet 
is  allowed  to  wander  at  will,  as  one  wanders  through  a  forest. 

181 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Amid  so  many  pleasant  things  and  fair, 
My  loveliest  lady  with  surpassing  grace 
Eclipsed  and  crowned  all  beauties  that  were  there ; 
Her  robe  was  white  and  delicate  as  lace ; 
And  still  her  eyes,  with  silent  speech  and  rare, 
Talked  to  the  heart,  leaving  the  lips  at  peace  : 
Come  to  me,  come,  dear  heart  of  mine,  she  said : 
Here  shall  thy  long  desires  at  rest  he  laid.1 

The  literature  of  the  Italian  Renaissance,  which 
was  inaugurated  by  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio,  reached 
its  highest  point  with  Ariosto.  Tasso,  equally  great 
with  Ariosto,  lived  at  the  beginning  of  a  long  period 
of  decline,  the  "  Jerusalem  Delivered  "  projecting 
the  last  rays  of  the  glories  of  the  Renaissance  into 
this  new  period.  The  sixteenth  century,  or  rather 
the  first  half  of  it,  is  the  golden  age  of  Italian  litera- 
ture, comparable  to  that  of  Augustus  in  Rome,  of 
Louis  XIV.  in  France,  and  of  Queen  Elizabeth  in 
England.  In  the  narrow  confines  of  this  sketch  we 
shall  only  be  able  to  treat  in  some  detail  the  great 
writers  thereof,  Boiardo,  Ariosto,  and  Tasso.  Yet 
the  number  of  men  of  genius  and  talent  is  legion  — 
giants  indeed  lived  in  those  days  —  not  only  in  the 
field  of  art  and  scholarship  but  in  literature.  In 
the  pastoral  poem,  besides  Tasso,  there  were  San- 
nazaro  and  Guarini,  the  former  (whose  "Arcadia" 

1  Symonds. 
182 


THE   RENAISSANCE 

was  imitated  in  England  by  Sidney  and  Spenser) 
on  the  border-line  between  the  fifteenth  and  six- 
teenth century,  the  latter  on  that  between  the  six- 
teenth and  seventeenth.  In  comic  poetry  there  was 
Francesco  Berni,  who  also  worked  over  Boiardo's 
"  Orlando  Innamorato,"  which  has  since  then  been 
read  almost  wholly  in  his  version.  In  prose  was 
developed  an  especially  rich  literature,  among  the 
great  masters  of  which  we  may  mention  in  history, 
Guicciardini,  Varchi,  Nardi,  and  Nicholas  Machia- 
velli,  who,  in  his  "  Prince,"  introduced  a  new  phi- 
losophy of  politics  ;  in  the  history  of  art,  Vasari ; 
in  novels  and  stories,  Luigi  da  Porto,  who  first  told 
the  story  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Giraldo  Cinzio,  and 
Matteo  Bandello,  who  continued  the  work  of  Boc- 
caccio and  Sacchetti.1  Forming  a  special  group  are 
Benvenuto  Cellini,  whose  autobiography  has  made 
him  famous  ;  Firenzuola,  who  wrote  on  the  beauty 
of  woman  ;  Baldasarre  Castiglione,  the  Lord  Ches- 
terfield of  his  day,  who  in  his  book  on  the  Cour- 
tier depicted  the  character  of  the  perfect  gentleman 
according  to  the  ideals  of  the  times. 

The  two  chief   forms   of  the  literature  of  this 
period,  however,  were  the  epic  and  the  lyric.    We 

1  Franco  Sacchetti  (1335-1400),  lyrical  poet  and  writer  of  stories 
(NovdU). 

183 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

shall  discuss  the  former  in  the  next  two  chapters. 
Here  we  shall  briefly  mention  some  of  the  best 
known  lyric  poets. 

The  most  celebrated  literary  man  of  the  day  was 
Pietro  Bembo  (1470-1547),  who  exerted  a  vast 
influence  in  making  Italian  once  more  the  vehicle 
for  the  highest  kind  of  literature.  An  accomplished 
Latin  scholar  himself,  he  urged  by  doctrine  and 
example  the  necessity  of  having  a  national  literature 
expressed  in  the  national  tongue.  His  dialogues  on 
this  subject,  as  well  as  those  on  the  subject  of  love, 
both  in  Italian,  influenced  prose,  while  his  lyrical 
poetry  placed  him  at  the  head  of  the  followers  of 
Petrarch.  Owing  to  the  fact  that  he  sought  his 
highest  honor  in  imitating  Petrarch  as  closely  as 
possible,  his  poetry  seems  monotonous  to  modern 
taste,  exhibiting  as  it  does  the  weakness  of  Petrarch- 
ism  in  exaggerated  form. 

Among  the  followers  of  Bembo  in  his  exaggerated 
Petrarchism  are  the  female  poets  Gaspara  Stampa 
(1523-1554),  Veronica  Gambara  (1485-1550), 
and  Vittoria  Colonna  (1490-1547),  famous  as  the 
friend  of  Michael  Angelo,  who  addressed  to  her 
some  of  his  best  sonnets. 

All  these  writers,  however,  were  utterly  without 
originality,  and  the  slavish  imitators  of  Petrarch. 
184 


THE   RENAISSANCE 

Michael  Angelo  (1475-1564),  on  the  other  hand, 
who  might  perhaps  have  been  as  great  in  poetry  as 
he  was  in  sculpture,  painting,  and  architecture,  if 
he  had  devoted  his  life  to  it,  also  wrote  a  number 
of  sonnets,  which  by  their  native  strength  and 
originality  separate  him  from  the  common  crowd 
of  songsters  about  him.  In  these  sonnets  we  no 
longer  find  mere  conventional  themes,  treated  in 
pretty  language  and  conceits,  but  deep,  sincere  and 
original  thoughts.  If  we  are  to  seek  for  any  pre- 
decessor it  must  be  Dante,  his  intense  admiration 
for  whom  is  expressed  in  the  following  sonnet :  — 

What  should  be  said  of  him  cannot  be  said  ; 

By  too  great  splendor  is  his  name  attended  ; 

To  blame  is  easier  those  who  him  offended, 
Than  reach  the  faintest  glory  round  him  shed. 
This  man  descended  to  the  doomed  and  dead 

For  our  instruction ;  then  to  God  ascended ; 

Heaven  opened  wide  to  him  its  portals  splendid, 
Who  from  his  country's,  closed  against  him,  fled, 
Ungrateful  land !  To  its  own  prejudice 

Nurse  of  his  fortunes  ;  and  this  showeth  well 

That  the  most  perfect  most  of  grief  shall  see. 
Among  a  thousand  proofs  let  one  suffice, 

That  as  his  exile  hath  no  parallel, 

Ne'er  walked  the  earth  a  greater  man  than  he.1 

His  love  for  Vittoria  Colonna  finds  expression 
in  the  following  two  sonnets,  —  the  first  of  which 

1  Longfellow. 
185 


both  in  thought  and  expression  might  have  been 
written  by  Dante,  —  while  the  second,  on  the  death 
of  his  lady,  reminds  us  of  Petrarch's  expression  of 
grief  for  the  loss  of  Laura  :  — 

The  might  of  one  fair  face  sublimes  my  love, 
For  it  hath  weaned  my  heart  from  low  desires ; 
Nor  death  I  need,  nor  purgatorial  fires. 

Thy  beauty,  antepast  of  joys  above, 

Instructs  me  in  the  bliss  that  saints  approve ; 
For  oh  !  how  good,  how  beautiful,  must  be 
The  God  that  made  so  good  a  thing  as  thee, 

So  fair  an  image  of  the  heavenly  Dove. 

Forgive  me  if  I  cannot  turn  away 

From  those  sweet  eyes  that  are  my  earthly  heaven, 
For  they  are  guiding  steps,  benignly  given 

To  tempt  my  footsteps  to  the  upward  way ; 
And  if  I  dwell  too  fondly  in  thy  sight, 
I  live  and  love  in  God's  peculiar  light.1 

When  the  prime  mover  of  my  many  sighs 

Heaven  took  through  death  from  out  her  earthly  place, 
Nature,  that  never  made  so  fair  a  face, 

Remained  ashamed,  and  tears  were  in  all  eyes. 

O  fate,  unheeding  my  impassioned  cries  I 
O  hopes  fallacious !  O  thou  spirit  of  grace, 
Where  art  thou  now  ?  Earth  holds  in  its  embrace 

Thy  lovely  limbs,  thy  holy  thoughts  the  skies. 

Vainly  did  cruel  death  attempt  to  stay 
The  rumor  of  thy  virtuous  renown, 
That  Lethe's  waters  could  not  wash  away ! 

1  J.  E.  Taylor. 
186 


MICHELANGELO 


THE   RENAISSANCE 

A  thousand  leaves  since  he  hath  stricken  thee  down, 
Speak  of  thee,  nor  to  thee  could  Heaven  convey, 
Except  through  death,  a  refuge  and  a  crown.1 

Very  beautiful  are  the  lines  in  which  the  aged 
poet  and  artist  looks  back  over  the  past,  and 
realizing  with  the  Preacher  of  old,  that  all  life  is 
vanity,  turns  his  eyes  forward  to  the  life  beyond 
the  grave,  of  which  the  crucifixion  and  the  resur- 
rection of  the  Saviour  are  the  pledge. 

The  course  of  my  long  life  hath  reached  at  last, 

In  fragile  bark  o'er  a  tempestuous  sea, 

The  common  harbor  where  must  rendered  be 
Account  of  all  the  actions  of  the  past. 
The  impassioned  phantasy,  that,  vague  and  vast, 

Made  art  an  idol  and  a  king  to  me, 

Was  an  illusion,  and  but  vanity 
Were  the  desires  that  lured  me  and  harassed. 
The  dreams  of  love,  that  were  so  sweet  of  yore, 

What  are  they  now,  when  two  deaths  may  be  mine, 

One  sure,  and  one  forecasting  its  alarms  ? 
Painting  and  sculpture  satisfy  no  more 

The  soul  now  turning  to  the  Love  Divine, 

That  oped,  to  embrace  us,  on  the  cross  its  arms.1 

1  Longfellow.    The  best  books  in  English  on  the  Renaissance 
are  those  written  by  John  Addington  Symonds. 


187 


VI 

AKIOSTO 

JLN  the  preceding  chapter  we  have  seen  how  the 
Renaissance  after  an  hundred  years  and  more  of 
slow  development  reached  its  climax,  and  produced 
that  wonderful  efflorescence  of  art  and  intellectual 
activity  which  marks  the  first  half  of  the  sixteenth 
century.  Among  the  supreme  representatives  in  art 
of  this  brilliant  period  may  be  mentioned  Raphael 
in  painting,  Michael  Angelo  in  sculpture  and  archi- 
tecture, and  Ariosto  in  poetry. 

In  discussing  the  romantic  poetry  of  Ariosto,  we 
must  go  back  a  number  of  years  in  order  to  get  the 
proper  perspective.  Among  the  brilliant  men  of 
letters  of  the  court  of  the  Medici  in  Florence  was  a 
certain  Luigi  Pulci,  of  a  poor  but  noble  family.  It 
was  he  who  was  the  first  to  introduce  into  elegant 
literature  the  old  romances  of  the  Carlovmgian 
cycle,  which  for  centuries  had  been  sung  and  re- 
cited by  rude,  wandering  minstrels  in  the  public 
streets  of  Italy. 

188 


ARIOSTO 


ARIOSTO 

We  have  seen  in  Chapter  I.  how  in  the  thir- 
teenth century  the  old  French  chansons  de  geste 
had  been  introduced  into  North  Italy  and  had  there 
become  popular.  These  had  been  rewritten  and 
worked  over  in  rude  forms  for  the  amusement  of  the 
common  folk,  but  up  to  the  time  of  Pulci  they  had 
found  no  place  in  literature  proper.  Now  it  is  the 
glory  of  Pulci  to  have  brought  this  popular  mate- 
rial into  the  realm  of  artistic  poetry.  This  he  is 
said  to  have  done  at  the  request  of  Lorenzo's 
mother,  the  result  being  the  poem  known  as  "  Mor- 
gante."  In  this  poem  Pulci  introduces  as  the  chief 
character  Orlando,1  the  nephew  of  Charlemagne, 
and  the  hero  of  Roncesvalles,  who  plays  so  large  a 
role  in  the  French  romances.  The  title  of  the 
poem  is  derived  from  the  name  of  a  giant  whose 
life  has  been  saved  by  Orlando,  whom  he,  full  of 
gratitude,  follows  as  a  faithful  servant;  he  drops 
out  of  the  story  in  the  twentieth  canto. 

Pulci,  in  his  "  Morgante,"  follows  closely  the 
popular  poetry  of  his  predecessors,  but  differs  from 
them  in  language,  style,  and  especially  in  the  comic 
treatment  of  his  theme ;  in  all  these  respects  he  is 
the  forerunner  of  Boiardo  and  Ariosto.  As  we  have 
seen,  he  was  a  native  of  Florence,  which,  up  to  the 

1  The  Italian  form  of  Roland. 
189 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

end  of  the  fifteenth  century,  had  been  the  chief 
centre  of  the  literary  glory  of  Italy.  The  scene  now 
changes  to  Ferrara,  where  the  house  of  Este  had  for 
generations  held  a  brilliant  court.  It  was  here  that 
the  three  great  poets  Boiardo,  Ariosto,  and  Tasso 
lived  and  produced  their  works. 

The  fame  of  Boiardo  has  been  so  eclipsed  by  that 
of  Ariosto  that  he  is  not  known  as  well  as  he  ought 
to  be,  considering  his  services  to  Italian  literature. 
To  him  belongs  the  credit  of  having  invented  the 
romantic  epic,  and  Ariosto,  who  followed  in  the 
same  lines,  added  but  little  to  the  general  ground- 
work of  his  predecessor. 

Matteo  Maria  Boiardo  was  born  of  a  noble  fam- 
ily at  Reggie  in  1434,  and  having  early  gone  to 
Ferrara,  remained  there  till  his  death  in  1494.  A 
scholar,  poet,  administrator,  and  courtier,  his  posi- 
tion at  the  court  of  the  Duke  of  Este  reminds  us  in- 
voluntarily of  that  of  Goethe,  three  hundred  years 
later,  at  Weimar.  His  first  essays  in  literature  were 
in  Latin,  but  when  he  was  about  forty  years  old  he 
began  his  poem  of  "  Orlando  Innamorato  "  (Roland 
in  Love).  He  was  led  naturally  thereto.  Ferrara 
had  early  favored  chivalrous  poetry,  and  the  library 
of  the  Duke  contained  a  large  number  of  romances, 
belonging  especially  to  the  Arthurian  cycle,  which 
190 


ARIOSTO 

pleased  the  elegant  society  of  the  court  more  than 
the  Carlovingian  stories  so  popular  with  the  com- 
mon people.  These  romances  of  King  Arthur  and 
the  Round  Table,  however,  were  in  French. 

Boiardo's  great  merit  consists  in  the  fact  that  he 
united  in  one  the  various  characteristics  of  both  the 
Carlovingian  and  the  Arthurian  romances,  and  thus 
combined  the  popular  and  the  courtly  element.  He 
chose  the  characters  of  his  poem  from  the  former, 
but  changed  them  to  true  knights  of  chivalry,  and 
added  all  the  paraphernalia  of  the  Arthurian  tales. 
Of  especial  importance  was  the  introduction  of  ro- 
mantic love  as  the  motive  of  all  action. 

The  general  theme  of  "  Orlando  Innamorato  "  is 
the  war  between  Charlemagne  and  the  Saracens, 
yet  there  is  no  one  definite  action  as  in  the  case  of 
the  regular  epic.  Rather,  the  poem  consists  of  a 
series  of  independent,  or  at  least  very  loosely  con- 
nected episodes,  in  which  the  adventures  of  the 
various  knights-errant  are  recounted  with  great 
skill  and  interest.  Chief  among  these  episodes  is 
that  of  Orlando  and  his  love  for  Angelica,  the 
daughter  of  the  king  of  Cathay,  who  comes  to  the 
court  of  Charlemagne  in  Paris,  and  by  means  of  her 
beauty  and  coquetry  succeeds  in  drawing  away  a 
number  of  the  best  Christian  warriors.  Other 
191 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

important  characters  are  Astolfo,  Rodomonte, 
Rinaldo,  and  the  latter's  sister,  Bradamante,  who 
falls  in  love  with  the  pagan  Roger,  who,  accord- 
ing to  JBoiardo,  was  the  founder  of  the  house  of 
Este.  Vast  as  the  poem  is  in  its  present  state, 
Boiardo  left  it  only  half  finished  when  he  died, 
in  1494. 

At  the  time  of  Boiardo's  death  Ludovico  Ariosto 
was  a  youth  of  twenty.  Born  in  Reggio,  in  1474, 
of  a  family  that  had  long  been  in  the  service  of  the 
Este  family,  he,  too,  after  an  irregular  and  tardy 
education  came  to  Ferrara  and  entered  the  service 
of  the  Cardinal  Este.  At  the  death  of  his  father, 
in  1500,  Ariosto  found  himself  at  the  head  of  a 
family  of  ten,  and  nobly  performed  his  duty  by  car- 
ing and  providing  for  all  his  brothers  and  sisters. 
His  position  in  the  household  of  the  cardinal  was 
not  at  all  to  his  liking ;  he  was  often  sent  on  em- 
bassies and  business  trips,  a  function  which,  to  a 
man  who  loved  quiet  and  leisure  as  much  as  Ariosto 
did,  was  utterly  distasteful.  In  1517  he  refused  to 
accompany  the  cardinal  to  Hungary,  on  the  ground 
of  ill-health,  and  was  thereupon  summarily  dis- 
missed. He  found  soon,  however,  more  congenial 
employment  in  the  household  of  Duke  Alfonso.  His 
life  now  was  more  quiet  and  afforded  him  more 
192 


ARIOSTO 

opportunity  for  study  and  writing.  Yet  even  here  he 
was  not  content.  His  inclinations  were  all  against 
court  life,  and  he  only  retained  his  position  on  ac- 
count of  his  poverty.  His  character,  as  depicted  in 
his  satires,  was  very  different  from  that  of  Petrarch, 
who  was  a  successful  courtier.  Ariosto  could  not 
bow  and  smile  and  make  himself  agreeable.  He 
was  sincere  and  independent  by  nature,  modest  in 
his  desires,  kindly  and  amiable,  loved  nature,  quiet 
study,  and  rural  occupations.  In  1527  he  succeeded 
in  saving  enough  to  buy  a  small  house  at  Ferrara, 
with  a  garden  attached.  Over  the  door  he  placed 
the  inscription  which  has  become  famous  :  "  Small, 
but  suited  to  me  ;  harmful  to  no  one ;  bought  with 
my  own  money."  1  Here  he  spent  the  remainder  of 
his  days,  happy  and  contented,  amusing  himself  with 
almost  childish  joy  in  the  cultivation  of  his  garden. 
He  died  June  6,  1533. 

Ariosto's  literary  work  consists  of  comedies,  which 
are  among  the  first  of  modern  literature,  satires, 
and  the  "  Orlando  Furioso "  (Mad  Roland").  The 
satires  rank  next  in  literary  value  to  his  master- 
piece, and  are  charming  examples  of  the  poetic 
epistle  rather  than  of  biting  satire.  They  contain 

1  Parva  sed  apta  mihi :  sed  nulli  obnoxia,  sed  non  sordida,  parta 
meo  sed  taiuen  aere  domus. 

193 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

many  details  of  the  society  of  the  day,  and  are  our 
best  source  for  a  knowledge  of  the  life  and  char- 
acter of  their  author.  They  are  all  inspired  by 
kindly  humor  and  full  of  worldly  wisdom  and  com- 
mon sense.  No  one  can  read  these  satires  without 
feeling  a  respect  and  affection  for  the  poet  who 
wrote  them. 

Ariosto's  most  famous  work,  however,  is  the 
"  Orlando  Furioso."  When  he  came  to  Ferrara 
everybody  was  talking  about  the  "  Orlando  Inna- 
morato  "  of  Boiardo.  Ariosto  himself  admired  it 
immensely,  for  it  harmonized  perfectly  with  his  own 
genius  and  literary  tastes.  Hence  when  there  came 
to  him  that  mysterious  command,  "  Write,"  which 
all  men  of  poetical  genius  hear  some  day  or  other, 
it  was  only  natural  that  he  should  turn  to  the  un- 
finished poem  of  his  predecessor,  with  the  thought 
of  completing  it. 

Yet  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  think  Ariosto  was  a 
mere  plagiarist  or  that  he  lacked  originality.  No 
writer  ever  lived  who  has  so  impressed  his  own  in- 
dividuality on  his  works  as  he.  He  took  the  data 
furnished  by  his  predecessors  and  joined  to  them  all 
the  culture  of  his  time,  its  ideas,  aspirations,  and 
conception  of  life ;  these  he  fused  into  one  vast 
work  which  reflects  the  age  of  the  Renaissance  as 
194 


ARIOSTO 

completely  as  the  "  Divine  Comedy "  reflects  the 
closing  period  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

It  is  practically  impossible  to  give  a  clear  yet 
brief  outline  of  "  Orlando  Furioso."  It  does  not, 
like  the  "  Iliad,"  "  ^Eneid,"  "  Paradise  Lost,"  and 
"  Jerusalem  Delivered,"  contain  one  central  action, 
with  which  all  parts  are  logically  connected,  but  is 
rather  a  vast  arena  on  which  take  place  many  differ- 
ent and  independent  actions  at  the  same  time.  The 
wars  between  Charlemagne  and  the  Saracens,  which 
had  been  begun  in  Boiardo's  poem,  are  here  con- 
tinued and  brought  to  an  end.  In  similar  manner 
Ariosto  takes  up  the  history  of  the  various  knights- 
errant  introduced  by  his  predecessor,  and  either  con- 
tinues their  adventures  or  introduces  new  ones  him- 
self. In  the  first  canto  the  poet  shows  us  the  army 
of  Agramante  before  the  walls  of  Paris,  in  which 
Charlemagne  and  his  army  are  shut  up,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  poem  he  shows  us  the  city  freed, 
the  enemy  defeated,  and  Christianity  saved  from 
the  dominion  of  the  Saracen.  Yet  this  is  not  the 
real  centre  of  action ;  often  it  is  entirely  lost  sight 
of  in  the  confusing  crowd  of  individual  adventures. 
It  only  serves  as  a  factitious  means  of  joining  from 
time  to  time  the  scattered  threads  of  the  various 
episodes.  When  the  poet  does  not  know  what  to  do 
195 


with  any  particular  character,  he  dispatches  him 
forthwith  to  Paris,  there  to  await  the  final  denoue- 
ment. 

The  individual  heroes  are  free,  not  bound  by  any 
ties  of  discipline  to  Charlemagne;  they  leave  at 
any  moment,  hi  obedience  to  individual  caprice,  and 
wander  forth  hi  search  of  love  and  honor.  It  is  in 
these  various  episodes  or  adventures  that  the  true 
interest  of  the  poem  resides.  At  first  sight  there 
seems  to  be  an  inextricable  confusion  hi  the  way 
they  are  told ;  but  after  careful  study  we  find  that 
the  poet  always  controls  them  with  a  firm  hand.  A 
constant  change  goes  on  before  our  eyes.  When 
one  story  has  been  told  for  a  time,  the  poet,  appar- 
ently f earing  lest  he  weary  the  reader,  breaks  it  off, 
always  at  an  interesting  point,  to  begin  another, 
which,  in  its  turn,  yields  to  another,  and  this  to 
still  another ;  from  time  to  time  these  stories  are 
taken  up  again,  continued,  and  finished.  All  these 
transitions  are  marvels  of  skill  and  ingenuity. 

Among  the  crowd  of  minor  episodes  three  stand 
out  with  especial  distinctness,  the  story  of  Cloridan 
and  Medoro,  Angelica's  love  for  the  latter  and  the 
consequent  madness  of  Orlando,  and  the  death  of 
Zerbino. 

Cloridan  and  Medoro  are  two  brave  young  pagans, 
196 


ARIOSTO 

whose  lord  and  master,  Dardinello,  has  been  slain 
in  battle  with  Charlemagne's  army  outside  the  walls 
of  Paris.  The  two  youths,  as  they  stand  on  guard 
at  night,  lament  that  their  master's  body  lies  un- 
buried  and  dishonored  on  the  field  of  battle,  and 
resolve  to  go  and  find  it  and,  if  possible,  to  bring 
it  back  to  camp.1 

Two  Moors  amid  the  paynim  army  were, 
From  stock  obscure  in  Ptoloraita  grown ; 
Of  whom  the  story,  an  example  rare 
Of  constant  love,  is  worthy  to  be  known ; 
Medoro  and  Cloridan  were  named  the  pair ; 
Who,  whether  Fortune  pleased  to  smile  or  frown, 
Served  Dardinello  with  fidelity, 
And  late  with  him  to  France  had  crossed  the  sea. 

These  two  were  posted  on  a  rampart's  height, 

With  more  to  guard  the  encampment  from  surprise, 

When  'mid  the  equal  intervals,  at  night, 

Medoro  gazed  on  heaven  with  sleepy  eyes. 

In  all  his  talk,  the  stripling,  wof  ul  wight, 

Here  cannot  choose,  but  of  his  lord  devise, 

The  royal  Dardinel ;  and  evermore 

Him,  left  unhonoured  on  the  field,  deplore. 

Then,  turning  to  his  mate,  cries :  "  Cloridane, 
I  cannot  tell  thee  what  a  cause  of  woe 
It  is  to  me,  my  lord  upon  the  plain 
Should  lie,  unworthy  food  for  wolf  or  crow ! 

1  Rose's  translation  has  been  used  in  the  following  quotations. 
197 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Thinking  how  still  to  me  he  was  humane, 
Meseems,  if  in  his  honour  I  forego 
This  life  of  mine,  for  favours  so  immense 
I  shall  but  make  a  feeble  recompense. 

"  That  he  may  lack  not  sepulture,  will  I 

60  forth,  and  seek  him  out  among  the  slain ; 

And  haply  God  may  will  that  none  shall  spy 

Where  Charles's  camp  lies  hushed.  Do  thou  remain ; 

That,  if  my  death  be  written  in  the  sky, 

Thou  may'st  the  deed  be  able  to  explain, 

So  that  if  Fortune  foil  so  fair  a  feat, 

The  world,  through  Fame,  my  loving  heart  may  weet." 

Amazed  was  Cloridan  a  child  should  show 
Such  heart,  such  love,  and  such  fair  loyalty ; 
And  fain  would  make  the  youth  his  thought  forego, 
Whom  he  held  passing  dear ;  but  fruitlessly 
Would  move  his  steadfast  purpose  ;  for  such  woe 
Will  neither  comforted  nor  altered  be. 
Medoro  is  disposed  to  meet  his  doom, 
Or  to  enclose  his  master  in  the  tomb. 

Seeing  that  nought  would  bend  him,  nought  would  move, 
"  I  too  will  go,"  was  Cloridan's  reply, 
"  In  such  a  glorious  act  myself  will  prove ; 
As  well  such  famous  death  I  covet,  I : 
What  other  thing  is  left  me ,  here  above, 
Deprived  of  thee,  Medoro  mine  ?     To  die 
With  thee  in  arms  is  better,  on  the  plain, 
Than  afterwards  of  grief,  should 'st  thou  be  slain." 

So  they  go  forth  on  their  generous  enterprise,  and 
after  slaying  many  distinguished  warriors  among 
198 


AKIOSTO 

the  sleeping  Christians,  they  approach  the  tent  of 
Charlemagne,  near  which  they  find  the  body  of 
their  master :  — 

Rearing  the  insidious  blade,  the  pair  are  near 
The  place,  where  round  King  Charles's  pavilion 
Are  tented  warlike  paladin  and  peer, 
Guarding  the  side  that  each  is  camped  upon. 
When  in  good  time  the  paynims  backward  steer, 
And  sheathe  their  swords,  the  impious  slaughter  done  ; 
Deeming  impossible,  in  such  a  number, 
But  they  must  light  on  one  who  does  not  slumber. 

And  though  they  might  escape  well  charged  with  prey, 
To  save  themselves  they  think  sufficient  gain. 
Thither  by  what  he  deems  the  safest  way 
(Medoro  following  him)went  Cloridane, 
Where,  in  the  field,  mid  bow  and  faulchion,  lay, 
And  shield  and  spear,  in  pool  of  purple  stain, 
Wealthy  and  poor,  the  king  and  vassal's  corse, 
And  overthrown  the  rider  and  his  horse. 

The  horrid  mixture  of  the  bodies  there 

Which  heaped  the  plain  where  roved  these  comrades  sworn, 

Might  well  have  rendered  vain  their  faithful  care 

Amid  the  mighty  piles,  till  break  of  morn, 

Had  not  the  moon,  at  young  Medoro's  prayer, 

Out  of  a  gloomy  cloud  put  forth  her  horn. 

Medoro  to  the  heavens  upturns  his  eyes 

Towards  the  moon,  and  thus  devoutly  cries : 

u  O  holy  goddess !  whom  our  fathers  well 
Have  styled  as  of  a  triple  form,  and  who 
199 


THE   GKEAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Thy  sovereign  beauty  dost  in  heaven,  and  hell, 
And  earth,  in  many  forms  reveal ;  and  through 
The  greenwood  holt,  of  beast  and  monster  fell, 
—  A  huntress  bold  —  the  flying  steps  pursue, 
Show  where  my  king,  amid  BO  many,  lies, 
Who  did,  alive,  thy  holy  studies  prize." 

At  the  youth's  prayer  from  parted  cloud  outshone 
(Were  it  the  work  of  faith  or  accident) 
The  moon,  as  fair,  as  when  Endymion 
She  circled  in  her  naked  arms :  with  tent, 
Christian  or  Saracen,  was  Paris-town 
Seen  in  that  gleam,  and  hill  and  plain's  extent 
With  these  Mount  Martyr  and  Mount  Lery's  height, 
This  on  the  left  and  that  upon  the  right. 

The  silvery  splendour  glistened  yet  more  clear, 
There  where  renowned  Almontes'  son  lay  dead. 
Faithful  Medoro  mourned  his  master  dear, 
Who  well  agnized l  the  quartering  white  and  red, 
With  visage  bathed  in  many  a  bitter  tear, 
(For  he  a  rill  from  either  eyelid  shed), 
And  piteous  act  and  moan,  that  might  have  whist3 
The  winds,  his  melancholy  plaint  to  list. 

Hurrying  their  steps,  they  hastened,  as  they  might, 
Under  the  cherished  burden  they  conveyed  ; 
And  now  approaching  was  the  lord  of  light, 
To  sweep  from  heaven  the  stars,  from  earth  the  shade, 
When  good  Zerbino,  he  whose  valiant  sprite 
Was  ne'er  in  time  of  need  by  sleep  down-weighed, 
From  chasing  Moors  all  night,  his  homeward  way 
Was  taking  to  the  camp  at  dawn  of  day. 

1  Recognized.  -  Hushed  or  silenced. 

200 


ARIOSTO 

He  has  with  him  some  horsemen  in  his  train, 
That  from  afar  the  two  companions  spy  ; 
Expecting  thus  some  spoil  or  prize  to  gain, 
They,  every  one,  towards  that  quarter  hie. 
"  Brother,  behoves  us,  "  cries  young  Cloridane, 
"  To  cast  away  the  load  we  bear,  and  fly : 
For  'twere  a  foolish  thought  (might  well  be  said) 
To  lose  two  living  men,  to  save  one  dead." 

And  dropped  the  burden,  weening  his  Medore 
Had  done  the  same  by  it,  upon  his  side  : 
But  that  poor  boy,  who  loved  his  master  more, 
His  shoulders  to  the  weight,  alone,  applied ; 
Cloridan  hurrying  with  all  haste  before, 
Deeming  him  close  behind  him  or  beside  ; 
Who,  did  he  know  his  danger,  him  to  save 
A  thousand  deaths,  instead  of  one,  would  brave. 

So  far  was  Cloridan  advanced  before, 
He  heard  the  boy  no  longer  in  the  wind ; 
But  when  he  marked  the  absence  of  Medore, 
It  seemed  as  if  his  heart  was  left  behind. 
"  Ah  I  how  was  I  so  negligent  (the  Moor 
Exclaimed),  so  far  beside  myself,  and  blind, 
That  I,  Medoro,  should  without  thee  fare, 
Nor  know  when  I  deserted  thee  or  where  ?  " 

So  saying,  in  the  wood  he  disappears, 
Plunging  into  the  maze  with  hurried  pace  ; 
And  thither,  whence  he  lately  issued,  steers, 
And,  desperate,  of  death  returns  in  trace  ; 
Cries  and  the  tread  of  steeds  this  while  he  hears, 
And  word  and  threat  of  foemen,  as  in  chase ; 
Lastly  Medoro  by  his  voice  is  known, 
Disarmed,  on  foot,  'mid  many  horse,  alone. 
201 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

A  hundred  horsemen  who  the  youth  surround, 
Zerbino  leads,  and  bids  his  followers  seize 
The  stripling ;  like  a  top,  the  boy  turns  round 
And  keeps  him  as  he  can :  among  the  trees, 
Behind  oak,  elm,  beech,  ash,  he  takes  his  ground, 
Nor  from  the  cherished  load  his  shoulders  frees. 
Wearied,  at  length,  the  burden  he  bestowed 
Upon  the  grass,  and  stalked  about  his  load. 

Cloridan,  who  to  aid  him  knows  not  how, 
And  with  Medoro  willingly  would  die, 
But  who  would  not  for  death  this  being  forego, 
Until  more  foes  than  one  should  lifeless  lie, 
Ambushed,  his  sharpest  arrow  to  his  bow 
Fits,  and  directs  it  with  so  true  an  eye, 
The  feathered  weapon  bores  a  Scotchman's  brain, 
And  lays  the  warrior  dead  upon  the  plain. 

Enraged  at  this,  Zerbino  leaps  forward  to  wreak 
vengeance  on  Medoro,  but  he,  begging  to  be 
allowed  to  bury  his  master,  so  touches  Zerbino 
with  his  youthful  beauty  that  he  is  inclined  to 
spare  him ;  but  one  of  his  own  followers  smiting 
Medoro,  who  stands  in  suppliant  attitude,  Zerbino, 
in  a  rage,  pursues  him,  and  followed  by  his  com- 
panions disappears,  leaving  Cloridan  dead  and 
Medoro  gravely  wounded. 

In  the  mean  time  — 

By  chance  arrived  a  damsel  at  the  place, 

Who  was  (though  mean  and  rustic  was  her  wear) 

202 


ARIOSTO 

Of  royal  presence  and  of  beauteous  face, 
And  lofty  manners,  sagely  debonair  ; 
Her  have  I  left  unsung  so  long  a  space, 
That  you  will  hardly  recognize  the  fair 
Angelica,  in  her  (if  known  not)  scan, 
The  lofty  daughter  of  Cathay's  great  khan. 

This  is  Angelica,  who  having  despised  the  love 
of  Orlando  and  abandoned  her  former  lover  Ri- 
naldo,  now  finally  meets  her  fate  in  the  person  of 
Medoro ;  she  — 

.  .  .  above  every  other  deed  repented, 
That  good  Rinaldo  she  had  loved  of  yore  ; 
And  that  to  look  so  low  she  had  consented, 
(As  by  such  choice  dishonoured)  grieved  her  sore. 
Love,  hearing  this,  such  arrogance  resented, 
And  would  the  damsel's  pride  endure  no  more 
Where  young  Medoro  lay  he  took  his  stand, 
And  waited  her,  with  bow  and  shaft  in  hand. 

When  fair  Angelica  the  stripling  spies, 
Nigh  hurt  to  death  in  that  disastrous  fray, 
Who  for  his  king,  that  there  unsheltered  lies, 
More  sad  than  for  his  own  misfortune  lay, 
She  f  eels  new  pity  in  her  bosom  rise, 
Which  makes  its  entry  in  unwonted  way. 
Touched  was  her  haughty  heart,  once  hard  and  cursed, 
And  more  when  he  his  piteous  tale  rehearsed. 

And  calling  back  to  memory  her  art, 
For  she  in  Ind  had  learned  chirurgery, 


203 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

(Since  it  appears  such  studies  in  that  part 
Worthy  of  praise  and  fame  are  held  to  be, 
And,  as  an  heirloom,  sires  to  sons  impart, 
With  little  aid  of  books,  the  mystery) 
Disposed  herself  to  work  with  simples'  juice, 
Till  she  in  him  should  healthier  life  produce. 

She  succeeds  in  curing  him,  and  falling  desperately 
in  love,  marries  him  and  departs  for  Cathay,  of 
which  she  now  designs  to  make  her  husband  king. 
After  some  time  Orlando  comes  that  way  and 
finds  engraved  on  trees  in  love-knots  and  inter- 
twined names,  the  evidence  of  the  love  of  Angelica 
and  Medoro :  — 

Turning  him  round,  he  there,  on  many  a  tree, 
Beheld  engraved,  upon  the  woody  shore, 
What  as  the  writing  of  his  deity 
He  knew,  as  soon  as  he  had  marked  the  lore. 
This  was  a  place  of  those  described  by  me, 
Whither  ofttimes,  attended  by  Medore, 
From  the  near  shepherd's  cot  had  wont  to  stray 
The  beauteous  lady,  sovereign  of  Cathay. 

In  a  hundred  knots,  amid  those  green  abodes, 

In  a  hundred  parts,  their  cyphered  names  are  dight ; 

Whose  many  letters  are  so  many  goads, 

Which  Love  has  in  his  bleeding  heart-core  pight.1 

He  would  discredit  in  a  thousand  modes, 

That  which  he  credits  in  his  own  despite ; 

And  would  parf orce  persuade  himself,  that  rhind  a 

Other  Angelica  than  his  had  signed. 

1  Fixed.  2  Rhyme. 

204 


ARIOSTO 

He  thus  tries  to  convince  himself  that  his  sus- 
picions are  unfounded  ;  but  in  vain,  for,  meeting  the 
shepherd  to  whose  house  Angelica  had  brought 
Medoro,  he  learns  in  detail  the  whole  story :  — 

Little  availed  the  count  his  self-deceit ; 

For  there  was  one  who  spake  of  it  unsought ; 
The  shepherd-swain,  who  to  allay  the  heat, 
With  which  he  saw  his  guest  so  troubled,  thought : 
The  tale  which  he  was  wonted  to  repeat 

—  Of  the  two  lovers  —  to  each  listener  taught, 
A  history  which  many  loved  to  hear, 

He  now,  without  reserve,  'gan  tell  the  peer. 

u  How  at  Angelica's  persuasive  prayer, 

He  to  his  farm  had  carried  young  Medore, 
Grievously  wounded  with  an  arrow ;  where, 
In  little  space  she  healed  the  angry  sore. 
But  while  she  exercised  this  pious  care, 
Love  in  her  heart  the  lady  wounded  more, 
And  kindled  from  small  spark  so  fierce  a  fire, 
She  burnt  all  over,  restless  with  desire : 

"  Nor  thinking  she  of  mightiest  king  was  born, 
Who  ruled  in  the  East,  nor  of  her  heritage, 
Forced  by  too  puissant  love,  had  thought  no  scorn 
To  be  the  consort  of  a  poor  foot-page." 

—  His  story  done,  to  them  in  proof  was  borne 
The  gem,  which,  in  reward  for  harbourage, 
To  her  extended  in  that  kind  abode, 
Angelica,  at  parting,  had  bestowed. 


205 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

A  deadly  axe  was  this  unhappy  close, 

Which,  at  a  single  stroke,  lopped  off  the  head ; 

When,  satiate  with  innumerable  blows, 

That  cruel  hangman  Love  his  hate  had  fed. 

Orlando  studied  to  conceal  his  woes ; 

And  yet  the  mischief  gathered  force  and  spread, 

And  would  break  out  parforce  in  tears  and  sighs, 

Would  he,  or  would  he  not,  from  mouth  and  eyes. 

He  rushes  forth  from  the  cottage  and  hastens 
to  the  forest,  where  he  can  give  full  vent  to  the 
sorrow  that  fills  his  heart,  and  where  he  gradually 
loses  all  control  of  himself,  finally  becoming  raging 
mad:  — 

All  night  about  the  forest  roved  the  count, 
And,  at  the  break  of  daily  light,  was  brought 
By  his  unhappy  fortune  to  the  fount, 
Where  his  inscription  young  Medoro  wrought. 
To  see  his  wrongs  inscribed  upon  that  mount, 
Inflamed  his  fury  so,  in  him  was  nought 
But  turned  to  hatred,  frenzy,  rage,  and  spite ; 
Nor  paused  he  more,  but  bared  his  faulchion  bright, 

Cleft  through  the  writing  ;  and  the  solid  block, 
Into  the  sky,  in  tiny  fragments  sped. 
Wo  worth  each  sapling  and  that  caverned  rock, 
Where  Medore  and  Angelica  were  read  ! 
So  scathed,  that  they  to  shepherd  or  to  flock 
Thenceforth  shall  never  furnish  shade  or  bed  ; 
And  that  sweet  fountain,  late  so  clear  and  pure, 
From  such  tempestuous  wrath  was  ill  secure. 

206 


ARIOSTO 

For  he  turf,  stone,  and  trunk,  and  shoot,  and  lop 
Cast  without  cease  into  the  beauteous  source ; 
Till,  turbid  from  the  bottom  to  the  top, 
Never  again  was  clear  the  troubled  course. 
At  length,  for  lack  of  breath,  compelled  to  stop, 
(When  he  is  bathed  in  sweat,  and  wasted  force, 
Serves  not  his  fury  more)  he  falls,  and  lies 
Upon  the  mead,  and,  gazing  upward,  sighs. 

Wearied  and  woe-begone,  he  fell  to  ground, 

And  turned  his  eyes  toward  heaven ;  nor  spake  he  aught, 

Nor  ate,  nor  slept,  till  in  his  daily  round 

The  golden  sun  had  broken  thrice,  and  sought 

His  rest  anew ;  nor  ever  ceased  his  wound 

To  rankle,  till  it  marred  his  sober  thought. 

At  length,  impelled  by  frenzy,  the  fourth  day, 

He  from  his  limbs  tore  plate  and  mail  away. 

Here  was  his  helmet,  there  his  shield  bestowed ; 
His  arms  far  off,  and,  farther  than  the  rest, 
His  cuirass  ;  through  the  greenwood  wide  was  strowed 
All  his  good  gear,  in  fine ;  and  next  his  vest 
He  rent ;  and,  in  his  fury,  naked  showed 
His  shaggy  paunch,  and  all  his  back  and  breast. 
And  'gan  that  frenzy  act,  so  passing  dread, 
Of  stranger  folly  never  shall  be  said. 

Thus  begins  the  madness  of  Orlando,  who,  after 
performing  prodigious  deeds  of  strength  on  men, 
cattle,  and  trees,  is  seized  with  restlessness,  and 
wanders  far  and  wide :  — 

207 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Now  right,  now  left,  he  wandered  far  and  wide, 

Throughout  all  France,  and  reached  a  bridge  one  day ; 

Beneath  which  ran  an  ample  water's  tide, 

Of  steep  and  broken  banks  ;  a  turret  gray 

Was  builded  by  the  spacious  river's  side, 

Discerned,  from  far  and  near,  and  every  way. 

What  here  he  did  I  shall  relate  elsewhere, 

Who  first  must  make  the  Scottish  prince  my  care. 

The  Scottish  prince,  to  whom  the  poet  refers  in 
these  last  lines,  is  the  same  Zerbino  whom  we  have 
left  pursuing  the  wretch  who  wounded  the  young 
Medoro.  Zerbino  is  young,  handsome,  and  brave, 
and  has  married  Isabella,  daughter  of  the  king  of 
Gallicia,  whom  he  loves  and  by  whom  he  is  loved 
with  tender  conjugal  affection.  Now  his  time  has 
come  to  die.  He,  with  Isabella,  arrives  on  the  scene 
of  Orlando's  madness,  and  finding  the  scattered 
arms  of  the  unfortunate  knight,  he  gathers  them  to- 
gether and  hangs  them  on  a  tree,  with  an  inscription 
telling  whose  they  are,  and  forbidding  all  to  touch 
them.  Just  then  up  comes  Mandricardo,  emperor  of 
Tartary,  accompanied  by  Doralice,  his  lady-love, 
and  attempts  to  take  possession  of  Orlando's  sword 
Durindane.  The  two  warriors  fight,  and  Zerbino 
being  fatally  wounded,  Doralice,  at  the  prayer  of 
Isabella,  prevails  on  Mandricardo  to  end  the  battle. 
Yet  it  is  too  late  to  save  the  life  of  Zerbino :  — 
208 


ARIOSTO 

Now,  when  his  anger  and  his  heat  secede, 
After  short  interval,  his  anguish  grows ; 
His  anguish  grows,  with  such  impetuous  pains, 
He  feels  that  life  is  ebbing  from  his  veins. 

For  weakness  can  the  prince  no  further  hie, 
And  so  beside  a  fount  is  forced  to  stay  ; 
Him  to  assist  the  pitying  maid  would  try, 
But  knows  not  what  to  do,  nor  what  to  say. 
For  lack  of  comfort  she  beholds  him  die ; 
Since  every  city  is  too  far  away, 
Where  in  this  need  she  could  resort  to  leech, 
Whose  succour  she  might  purchase  or  beseech. 

She,  blaming  Fortune,  and  the  cruel  sky, 
Can  only  utter  fond  complaints  and  vain. 
"  Why  sank  I  not  in  ocean  (was  her  cry), 
When  first  I  reared  my  sail  upon  the  main  ?  " 
Zerbino,  who  on  her  his  languid  eye 
Had  fixed,  as  she  bemoaned  her,  felt  more  pain 
Than  that  enduring  and  strong  anguish  bred, 
Through  which  the  suffering  youth  was  well-nigh  dead. 

"  So  be  thou  pleased,  my  heart  (Zerbino  cried), 
To  love  me  yet,  when  I  am  dead  and  gone, 
As  to  abandon  thee  without  a  guide, 
And  not  to  die,  distresses  me  alone. 
For  did  it  me  in  place  secure  betide 
To  end  my  days,  this  earthly  journey  done, 
I  cheerful,  and  content,  and  fully  blest 
Would  die,  since  I  should  die  upon  thy  breast. 

"  But  since  to  abandon  thee,  to  whom  a  prize 
I  know  not,  my  sad  fate  compels,  I  swear, 
209 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

My  Isabella,  by  that  mouth,  those  eyes, 
By  what  enchained  me  first,  that  lovely  hair ; 
My  spirit,  troubled  and  despairing,  hies 
Into  hell's  deep  and  gloomy  bottom ;  where 
To  think,  them  wert  abandoned  so  by  me, 
Of  all  its  woes  the  heaviest  pain  will  be." 

At  this  the  sorrowing  Isabel,  declining 

Her  mournful  face,  which  with  her  tears  o'erflows, 
Towards  the  sufferer,  and  her  mouth  conjoining 
To  her  Zerbino's,  languid  as  a  rose  : 
Hose  gathered  out  of  season,  and  which,  pining, 
Fades  where  it  on  the  shadowy  hedgerow  grows, 
Exclaims,  "  Without  me  think  not  so,  my  heart, 
On  this  your  last,  long  journey  to  depart. 

"  Of  this,  my  heart,  conceive  not  any  fear, 
For  I  will  follow  thee  to  heaven  or  hell ; 
It  fits  our  souls  together  quit  this  sphere, 
Together  go ;  for  aye  together  dwell. 
No  sooner  closed  thine  eyelids  shall  appear, 
Than  either  me  internal  grief  will  quell, 
Or  has  it  not  such  power,  I  here  protest, 
I  with  this  sword  to-day  will  pierce  my  breast. 

"  I  of  our  bodies  cherish  hope  not  light, 

That  they  shall  have  a  happier  fate  when  dead ; 
Together  to  entomb  them,  may  some  wight, 
Haply  by  pity  moved,  be  hither  led." 
She  the  poor  remnants  of  his  vital  sprite 
Went  on  collecting,  as  these  words  she  said : 
And  while  yet  aught  remains,  with  mournful  lips, 
The  last  faint  breath  of  life  devoutly  sips. 
210 


ARIOSTO 

'T  was  here  his  feeble  voice  Zerbino  manned, 
Crying,  "  My  deity,  I  beg  and  pray, 
By  that  love  witnessed,  when  thy  father's  land 
Thou  quittedst  for  my  sake ;  and,  if  I  may 
In  any  thing  command  thee,  I  command, 
That,  with  God's  pleasure,  thou  live  out  thy  day ; 
Nor  ever  banish  from  thy  memory, 
That,  well  as  man  can  love,  have  I  loved  thee. 

;  God  haply  will  provide  thee  with  good  aid, 
To  free  thee  from  each  churlish  deed  I  fear ; 
As  when  in  the  dark  cavern  thou  wast  stayed, 
He  sent,  to  rescue  thee,  Anglante's  peer ; 
So  he  (grammercy!)  succoured  thee  dismayed 
At  sea,  and  from  the  wicked  Biscayneer. 
And  if  thou  must  choose  death,  in  place  of  worse, 
Then  only  choose  it  as  a  lesser  curse." 

I  think  not  these  last  words  of  Scotland's  knight 
Were  so  expressed,  that  he  was  understood ; 
With  these,  he  finished,  like  a  feeble  light, 
Which  needs  supply  of  wax,  or  other  food. 
—  Who  is  there,  that  has  power  to  tell  aright 
The  gentle  Isabella's  doleful  mood  ? 
When  stiff,  her  loved  Zerbino,  with  pale  face, 
And  cold  as  ice,  remained  in  her  embrace. 

On  the  ensanguined  corse,  in  sorrow  drowned, 
The  damsel  throws  herself,  in  her  despair, 
And  shrieks  so  loud  that  wood  and  plain  resound 
For  many  miles  about ;  nor  does  she  spare 
Bosom  or  cheek ;  but  still,  with  cruel  wound, 
One  and  the  other  smites  the  afflicted  fair ; 
And  wrongs  her  curling  locks  of  golden  grain, 
Aye  calling  on  the  well-loved  youth  in  vain. 
211 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Neither  the  wars  of  Charlemagne  nor  the  mad- 
ness of  Orlando  gives  a  real  unity  to  the  poem; 
the  nearest  thing  to  such  a  unity  is  to  be  found  in 
the  story  of  Roger  and  Bradamante,  the  former  a 
pagan,  the  latter  a  Christian,  daughter  of  Aymon 
and  sister  of  Rinaldo.  They  love  each  other,  seek 
each  other,  and  after  countless  adventures  by  land 
and  sea,  are  united  in  marriage,  thus  founding  the 
House  of  Este.  It  is  with  Roger's  conversion  to 
Christianity  and  his  marriage  that  the  poem  ends. 
All  the  different  heroes  are  gathered  together  be- 
fore the  walls  of  Paris ;  Orlando's  madness  has  been 
cured  by  Astolfo,  who  has  made  his  famous  visit 
to  the  moon,  where,  in  the  Paradise  of  Fools,  he 
recovers  the  lost  brains  of  his  friend;  Roger  on 
his  wedding  day  slays  Rodomonte,  the  truculent 
and  hitherto  unconquerable  enemy  of  the  Chris- 
tians, and  with  his  fall  the  war  and  the  poem  are 
ended. 

Hard  as  it  is  to  give  a  clear  conception  of  the 
complicated  adventures,  told  in  the  "  Orlando  Fu- 
rioso,"  it  is  perhaps  still  harder  to  give  an  idea  of 
its  charm  to  those  who  have  not  read  it.  We  are 
introduced  at  once  into  a  \vorld  of  fancy,  a  sort  of 
fairy-book  for  grown-up  people.  The  poem  is  not 
212 


ARIOSTO 

deeply  impressive  like  the  "  Divine  Comedy  ;  "  it 
has  no  elements  of  tragedy.  Ariosto  did  not  aim  at 
moral  effect,  but  merely  sought  to  amuse  his  read- 
ers. Dante  represents  the  deep,  mystical  religious 
feeling  of  his  times  ;  Ariosto  represents  the  world- 
liness  of  the  nee-paganism  of  the  Renaissance.  The 
asceticism  of  the  Middle  Ages  now  gives  way  to 
intense  delight  in  the  life  that  now  is.  The  artist 
and  poet  sought  to  represent  the  pomp  and  circum- 
stance of  life,  man  in  his  physical  and  intellectual 
power,  woman  in  her  beauty,  nature  in  all  its  pic- 
turesque variety,  art  in  its  magnificence.  This  was 
the  ideal  of  the  Italian  Renaissance ;  this  was  the 
ideal  followed  by  Ariosto. 

The  great  charm  of  Ariosto  is  his  style.  Here 
form  reaches  its  highest  expression.  He  worked 
over  and  polished  his  verses  unceasingly,  yet  so 
natural  are  they  that  they  seem  to  have  been  writ- 
ten spontaneously.  The  "  Orlando  "  is  full  of  beau- 
tiful descriptions,  of  pathetic  scenes,  alternating 
skillfully  with  humorous  ones.  Ariosto's  humor, 
however,  is  not  coarse  or  grotesque,  but  refined 
and  elegant.  He  does  not  caricature  the  stories  of 
chivalry,  as  Cervantes  does  in  "  Don  Quixote  ; "  but 
living  in  a  sceptical  age  he  cannot  take  seriously 
the  creatures  of  his  own  fancy,  and  accompanies 
213 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

the  prodigious  deeds  of  his  heroes  with  a  smile  of 
good-natured  irony. 

We  have  already  said  that  Ariosto  was  a  man 
of  good  sense.  From  the  quiet  of  his  own  home  he 
looked  out  upon  the  ruffled  sea  of  life  and  mused  on 
what  he  saw.  His  reflections  are  chiefly  contained 
in  his  satires ;  but  they  likewise  add  a  peculiar  and 
original  charm  to  the  "  Orlando  Furioso."  Among 
the  parts  most  popular  with  the  serious  reader  are 
the  short  introductions  to  the  various  cantos,  each 
containing  some  wise  reflection,  some  rule  of  life, 
or  some  kindly  satire ;  this  charm  is  well  known 
to  the  lover  of  Thackeray.1 

1  For  the  romantic  poets,  Leigh  Hunt's  hook,  Stories  from  the 
Italian  Poets,  may  he  read.  The  first  canto  of  Pnlci's  Morgante 
Maggiore  was  translated  by  Byron  and  may  he  found  in  his  works. 
A  complete  translation  of  Orlando  Furioso,-  translated  by  Rose,  is 
published  in  the  Bohn  Library. 


214 


VII 

TASSO 


E 


EOM  the  beginning  of  Italian  literature  to  the 
death  of  Ariosto  nearly  three  hundred  years  had 
elapsed.  In  that  period  four  of  its  greatest  writers 
had  appeared.  Yet  no  literature  can  attain  the 
highest  rank  in  which  the  drama  and  epic  are  not 
represented.  Italy  hitherto  lacked  these  two  impor- 
tant branches.  The  "  Divine  Comedy  "  of  Dante 
is,  strictly  speaking,  not  an  epic,  but  forms  a  class 
by  itself,  being  an  imaginative  journey  to  the  su- 
pernatural world,  with  a  record  of  things  seen  and 
heard  therein  ;  Ariosto's  "  Orlando  Furioso  "  was 
a  revival  of  the  old  chivalrous  romances  in  a  new 
and  elegant  form,  adapted  to  the  conditions  and 
taste  of  his  times ;  a  huge  fresco,  rather  than  an 
epic.  As  we  shall  see  in  the  next  chapter,  comedy 
and  tragedy  had  to  wait  nearly  two  hundred  years 
after  the  death  of  Ariosto  before  finding  worthy 
representatives  in  Alfieri  and  Goldoni.  The  regu- 
lar epic,  however,  was  given  to  Italy  by  Tasso 
toward  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
215 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

The  story  of  Tasso's  life  is  of  great  though  pain- 
ful interest.  It  is  a  tragedy  of  suffering  like  that 
of  Dante  ;  yet  how  vast  the  difference  between  the 
two !  Dante  bore  his  sufferings  with  unparalleled 
nobility  of  character,  exciting  our  admiration. 
Tasso,  weak  and  vacillating  by  nature,  lived 
wretched  and  miserable,  not  from  the  decrees  of 
fortune,  but  owing  to  his  unfitness  to  bear  the 
trials  of  ordinary  life. 

He  was  born  March  11,  1544,  at  Sorrento,  near 
Naples,  the  son  of  Bernardo  Tasso,  a  man  of  af- 
fairs, a  courtier  and  a  poet,  who,  although  of  noble 
family,  was  forced  by  straitened  circumstances  to 
pass  his  life  in  the  service  of  others.  Tasso's  edu- 
cation was  varied  enough  ;  he  spent  a  few  years  at 
a  Jesuit  school  in  Naples,  an  experience  which  left 
a  lasting  impression  on  his  sensitive  and  melancholy 
temperament ;  then  after  studying  under  private 
teachers  at  Rome,  he  devoted  himself  for  several 
years  to  the  study  of  law  at  the  universities  of 
Padua  and  Bologna.  He  was  compelled  to  leave 
the  latter  as  a  result  of  certain  satires  against 
the  university  authorities,  which  he  was  accused 
of  having  written. 

The  important  period  of  his  life  begins  in  1565, 
when  he  went  to  Ferrara,  then,  as  in  the  days  of 
216 


TASSO 


TASSO 

Boiardo  and  Ariosto,  the  centre  of  a  rich  and  bril- 
liant court.  His  life  here  for  the  next  seven  or 
eight  years  was  a  prosperous  one.  Fortune  seemed 
to  have  showered  her  fairest  gifts  on  this  young, 
handsome,  and  gentle-mannered  poet.  He  was 
treated  on  terms  of  intimacy  by  the  Duke  and  his 
sisters,  Lucretia  and  Leonora.  He  was  accustomed 
to  take  his  meals  with  the  two  ladies,  and  to  them 
he  read  the  poetry  which  he  wrote  from  time 
to  time.  It  was  undoubtedly  due  to  their  influ- 
ence that  he  composed  his  famous  pastoral  poem, 
"  Aminta"  (1572-73),  full  of  exquisite  pictures  of 
rural  life,  and  bathed  in  an  atmosphere  of  tender 
and  refined  love.  This  poem  had  an  unprecedented 
success,  and  made  its  author  famous  throughout 
all  Europe. 

Not  long  after  this,  however,  the  first  germs  of 
the  terrible  mental  disease  which  wrecked  his  life 
began  to  show  themselves.  For  many  years  after 
his  death  Tasso  was  made  the  hero  of  a  romance,  in 
which  he  was  depicted  as  a  martyr  to  social  caste ; 
the  victim  of  his  own  love  for  a  woman  beyond  his 
sphere.  According  to  this  romance,  Tasso  fell  in  love 
with  the  sister  of  the  Duke  of  Ferrara,  and  for  this 
crime  was  shut  up  in  prison  and  falsely  treated  as 
insane.  The  results  of  modern  scholarship,  how- 
217 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

ever,  have  dissipated  the  sentimental  halo  from  the 
brow  of  the  unfortunate  poet,  and  reduced  his  case 
to  one  of  pathological  diagnosis.  Leonora  was  some 
ten  years  older  than  Tasso,  and  the  affection  which 
at  first  undoubtedly  existed  between  them  was  that 
of  an  elder  sister  and  a  younger  brother.  The  Duke 
was  not  cruel  to  Tasso,  but  on  the  contrary  treated 
him  at  first  kindly,  and  only  when  his  patience 
was  at  last  worn  out  by  the  vagaries  of  the  poet, 
did  he  decide  to  drop  him  and  to  bother  himself 
no  more  about  him. 

The  secret  of  Tasso's  sufferings  and  vicissitudes 
of  fortune  lay  in  himself ;  he  was,  during  the  later 
part  of  his  life,  simply  insane.  All  his  actions  dur- 
ing this  period  illustrate  perfectly  the  various 
phases  of  the  persecution  mania,  which  in  his  case 
was  aggravated  by  religious  hallucination.  To  this 
terrible  mental  disease  he  was  predisposed  from 
early  life ;  his  Jesuit  education,  the  mysterious 
death  of  his  mother  (suspected  of  having  been 
poisoned),  overwork  and  worriment,  and  especially 
his  morbidly  sensitive  and  melancholy  temperament, 
all  helped  to  prepare  the  way  for  the  catastrophe 
that  was  to  darken  his  life. 

The  first  open  manifestations  of  insanity  occurred 
in  1577  (probably  as  the  result  of  a  fever),  about 
218 


TASSO 

the  time  he  had  finished  the  first  draft  of  the 
"  Jerusalem  Delivered."  Very  foolishly  for  a  man 
as  sensitive  as  he  was,  he  turned  over  the  manu- 
script of  his  poem  to  a  number  of  friends  for  sug- 
gestions. The  heartless  criticisms  he  received  from 
them  filled  him  with  bitterness  and  fostered  the 
rising  irritability  of  his  nascent  disease.  He  was 
especially  hurt  by  the  brutal  and  stupid  criticism 
of  the  Inquisitor  Antoniano,  who  advised  him  to  cut 
out  all  the  romantic  episodes,  which  form  the  real 
beauty  of  the  poem.  This  put  into  his  mind  the 
thought  that  the  Inquisition  might  refuse  him  per- 
mission to  print  his  poem,  and  made  him  fear  that 
he  might  be  a  heretic.  The  lessons  of  his  early 
teachers,  the  Jesuits,  now  began  to  bear  fruit.  In 
1577,  tormented  by  religious  doubts,  he  went  to 
the  Inquisitor  of  Bologna  and  laid  his  case  before 
him.  Although  the  latter  absolved  him  from  his 
self-charge  of  heresy,  Tasso  was  not  satisfied. 
Henceforth  religious  fear  was  added  to  the  fear  of 
assassination  —  a  double  torment  to  his  soul. 

Under  these  circumstances  he  became  more  and 
more  moody  and  irritable ;  he  was  suspicious  of  all 
about  him  and  subject  to  frequent  outbursts  of 
violence.  On  the  evening  of  June  17,  1577,  he 
was  discoursing  of  his  troubles  to  the  Princess 
219 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Lucretia,  when  he  suspected  a  passing  servant  of 
spying  him,  and  flung  a  knife  at  him.  In  order  to 
prevent  further  acts  of  violence  he  was  shut  up,  at 
first  in  his  own  room,  and  later  in  the  monastery  of 
St.  Francis,  under  the  care  of  a  physician.  On  July 
27  he  broke  the  door  and  escaped.  Horsemen  were 
sent  after  him,  but  being  disguised  as  a  peasant,  he 
escaped,  and  after  many  adventures,  often  begging 
his  way  as  a  common  beggar,  he  reached  Sorrento, 
where,  in  the  quiet  seclusion  of  his  sister's  house, 
surrounded  by  all  the  tokens  of  her  love  and  sym- 
pathy, he  enjoyed  a  short  period  of  rest  and  peace. 

He  soon  became  restless,  however,  and  yearned 
for  the  brilliant  life  of  the  court,  which  presented 
itself  to  his  fancy,  enhanced  by  the  charms  of  dis- 
tance and  of  those  things  which  were  once  pos- 
sessed and  have  been  lost.  He  was  like  a  butterfly, 
always  attracted  toward  the  light  that  was  to  de- 
stroy him.  He  returned  to  Ferrara,  but  again  ran 
away,  wandering  from  city  to  city,  yet  finding  no- 
where a  warm  welcome.  "  The  world's  rejected 
guest,"  Shelley  called  him,  who  knew  himself  only 
too  well  the  meaning  of  these  words. 

In  February,  1579,  Tasso  once  more  returned  to 
Ferrara,  this  time  without  previous  warning,  and 
asked  to  be  received  by  the  Duke.  It  was  a  singu- 
220 


TASSO 

larly  unpropitious  moment ;  the  Duke  was  tjien  In 
the  midst  of  preparations  for  his  marriage  with 
Margaret  Gonzaga,  his  third  wife,  and  naturally 
enough,  the  obscure,  half -insane  poet  was  neglected. 
This  neglect  completely  turned  Tasso's  mind,  and 
losing  all  self-control,  he  broke  out  into  violent 
invectives  in  the  presence  of  the  court.  He  was 
immediately  taken  out,  shut  up  in  the  insane  asylum 
of  St.  Anna,  and,  in  accordance  with  the  barbarous 
customs  of  the  age  in  the  treatment  of  the  insane, 
was  put  in  chains.  Here  he  remained  in  utter 
misery,  a  prey  to  the  double  nightmare  of  his  sick 
brain,  —  fear  of  death  by  the  assassin's  knife,  and 
of  everlasting  damnation  as  a  heretic.  The  letters 
which  he  wrote  by  scores  during  this  period  are  of 
heartbreaking  pathos. 

He  remained  in  St.  Anna  nearly  eight  years,  be- 
ing released  in  1586  at  the  solicitation  of  Prince 
Vincenzo  Gonzaga,  brother-in-law  of  the  Duke  of 
Ferrara.  From  now  on  to  the  end,  the  story  of 
Tasso's  life  becomes  a  mere  repetition  of  melan- 
choly incidents.  Once  more  he  went  from  city  to 
city,  visiting  in  turn  Milan,  Florence,  Naples,  and 
Koine,  and  moving  restlessly  hither  and  thither  — 

Like  spirits  of  the  wandering  wind, 
Who  seek  for  rest,  yet  rest  can  never  find. 

221 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Finally,  fortune  seemed  about  to  smile  upon  him  ; 
a  faint  ray  of  sunshine  broke  through  the  thick 
clouds  that  for  so  long  had  hung  over  his  life.  In 
November,  1594,  he  was  invited  to  Rome,  there  to 
be  crowned  poet,  as  Petrarch  had  been.  The  Pope 
assigned  him  a  pension,  and  it  seemed  as  if  at  last 
some  measure  of  happiness  might  again  be  his.  It 
was  only  a  brief  gleam  of  sunshine,  however ;  the 
clouds  soon  closed  again,  and  the  sun  of  Tasso's 
life  hastened  to  its  setting  shrouded  in  gloom.  The 
coronation  was  put  off  on  account  of  the  ill  health 
of  Cardinal  Cinzio  and  the  inclemency  of  the  sea- 
son. In  March,  1595,  Tasso  himself  fell  sick,  and 
in  April  was  taken  to  the  monastery  of  St.  Onofrio 
on  the  Janiculum  hill.  To  the  monks  who  came  to 
meet  him  he  uttered  the  pathetic  words :  "  My  fa- 
thers, I  have  come  to  die  among  you."  The  Pope 
sent  his  own  physician  to  attend  him,  but  in  vain. 
The  world-weary  poet  passed  away  April  25, 1595. 
His  body  lies  buried  in  the  adjacent  church.  The 
visitor  to-day  can  still  see  his  room,  furnished  as  in 
his  lifetime,  and  on  the  wall  of  which  is  hanging  a 
framed  copy  of  his  last  letter,  in  which  he  foretells 
his  speedy  death. 

Tasso's  works  are  comparatively  voluminous, 
and  consist  of  lyrical  poems,  a  pastoral  drama 
222 


TASSO 

("  Aminta  "),  a  tragedy  ("  Torrismondo  "),  dia- 
logues, letters,  and  the  "  Jerusalem  Delivered." 
In  this  brief  sketch  we  can  only  discuss  the  latter, 
by  which  alone  he  is  known  the  world  over. 

Already  when  only  sixteen  years  old,  he  had  felt 
the  ambition  to  write  a  poem  which  should  combine 
the  merits  of  the  regular  epic  (such  as  the  "  Iliad  " 
and  "  ^Eneid  "),  and  the  romantic  interest  of  the 
poems  of  Boiardo  and  Ariosto.  His  "  Rinaldo," 
written  when  he  was  only  nineteen  years  old,  was 
remarkable  both  on  account  of  the  youth  of  its  au- 
thor and  as  a  promise  of  what  was  to  follow.  For 
a  number  of  years  after  this,  however,  he  devoted 
himself  almost  exclusively  to  the  task  of  preparing 
himself,  by  reading,  study,  and  thought,  to  write 
the  great  poem  which  he  had  in  mind. 

His  choice  of  a  subject  was  a  happy  one.  The 
fear  of  the  Turk  at  that  time  was  widespread  ;  the 
wars  between  Christian  and  Saracen,  which  filled 
the  old  romances,  were  now  occurring  again  on  the 
eastern  borders  of  Europe.  The  Turks  had  con- 
quered Hungary,  and  their  piratic  ships  had 
ravaged  the  coast  of  Italy,  often  destroying  entire 
populations  ;  a  short  time  before,  Sorrento,  Tasso's 
birthplace,  had  been  attacked,  and  his  sister  escaped 
only  by  a  miracle.  Tasso  himself  must  have  heard 
223 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

many  a  story  of  the  crusades  when  a  child  at  Sor- 
rento, where  Pope  Urban,  who  had  published  the 
first  crusade,  was  buried.  His  choice  of  the  deliv- 
erance of  Jerusalem  from  the  unbeliever  then  was 
a  natural  one. 

The  story  of  "  Jerusalem  Delivered,"  unlike  that 
of  the  "  Orlando  Furioso,"  is  a  simple  one.  Yet  the 
main  plot,  i.  e.,  the  military  operations  of  Godfrey, 
the  various  battles,  and  the  final  capture  of  Jeru- 
salem, are  not  so  effective  or  interesting  as  the 
various  romantic  episodes  introduced  from  time  to 
time ;  the  reader  to-day  is  disposed  to  hurry  over  the 
early  cantos  and  to  linger  over  the  beautiful  pages 
which  tell  the  loves  of  Tancred  and  Clorinda,  Olinda 
and  Sofronia,  Rinaldo,  Armida,  and  Erminia. 

The  poem  begins  with  the  usual  invocation  : 1  — 

I  sing  the  pious  arms  and  Chief,  who  freed 
The  Sepulchre  of  Christ  from  thrall  profane  : 
Much  did  he  toil  in  thought,  and  much  in  deed ; 
Much  in  the  glorious  enterprise  sustain 
And  hell  in  vain  opposed  him  ;  and  in  rain 
Afric  and  Asia  to  the  rescue  poured 
Their  mingled  tribes  ;  —  Heaven  recompensed  his  pain, 
And  from  all  fruitless  sallies  of  the  sword, 
True  to  the  Red-Cross  flag  his  wandering  friends  restored. 

O,  thou,  the  Muse,  that  not  with  fading  palms 
Circlest  thy  brows  on  Pindus,  but  among 
1  Wiffen's  translation  is  used  in  the  following  quotations. 
224 


TASSO 

The  Angels  warbling  their  celestial  psalms, 
Hast  for  thy  coronal  a  golden  throng 
Of  everlasting  stars !  make  thou  my  song 
Lucid  and  pure  ;  breathe  thou  the  flame  divine 
Into  my  bosom  ;  and  forgive  the  wrong, 
If  with  grave  truth  light  fiction  I  combine, 
And  sometimes  grace  my  page  with  other  flowers  than  thine. 

The  poet  then  plunges  into  the  midst  of  the  ac- 
tion. We  learn  how  the  Christian  army  has  been 
in  Holy  Land  for  six  years,  and  how  it  has  made 
many  conquests :  — 

Six  summers  now  were  past,  since  in  the  East 
Their  high  Crusade  the  Christians  had  begun ; 
And  Nice  by  storm,  and  Antioch  had  they  seized 
By  secret  guile,  and  gallantly  when  won, 
Held  in  defiance  of  the  myriads  dun, 
Pressed  to  its  conquest  by  the  Persian  king ; 
Tortosa  sacked,  when  now  the  sullen  sun 
Entered  Aquarius,  to  breme  1  winter's  wing 
The  quartered  hosts  give  place,  and  wait  the  coming  spring. 

In  the  spring  of  the  seventh  year  the  archangel 

Gabriel  appears  to  Godfrey  of  Bouillon  and  orders 

him  to  assemble  the  chiefs  of  the  army  and  prepare 

for  a  new  and  vigorous   prosecution  of   the  war. 

Godfrey  obeys  and  is  himself  elected  commander- 

in-chief.    Then,  after  a  review  of  the  troops,  which 

furnishes  the  poet  an  opportunity  of  giving  a  cata- 

1  Fierce. 

225 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

logue  of  the  various  Christian  forces  (after  the 
manner  of  Homer),  the  whole  army  starts  for 
Jerusalem. 

The  scene  then  changes  to  the  Holy  City  itself, 
where  King  Aladine  and  his  followers  are  seized 
with  consternation  at  the  news  of  the  advance  of 
the  Christians.  We  now  see  the  first  of  the  famous 
episodes  of  the  "  Jerusalem  Delivered."  The  magi- 
cian Ismeno  urges  the  king  to  seize  a  certain  image 
of  the  Virgin  Mary  and  shut  it  up  in  the  royal 
mosque  (thus  converting  it  into  a  palladium  for 
Jerusalem).  The  king  does  so;  but  immediately 
the  image  disappears  from  the  mosque.  Aladine 
is  wild  with  rage,  and  being  unable  to  discover  the 
perpetrator  of  the  outrage,  resolves  to  destroy  all 
the  Christians  in  the  city.  Now  there  was  in  the 
city  a  beautiful  Christian  girl. 

Of  generous  thoughts  and  principles  sublime, 
Amongst  them  in  the  city  lived  a  maid, 
The  flower  of  virgins,  in  her  ripest  prime, 
Supremely  beautiful !  but  that  she  made 
Never  her  care,  or  beauty  only  weighed 
In  worth  with  virtue ;  and  her  worth  acquired 
A  deeper  charm  from  blooming  in  the  shade ; 
Lovers  she  shunned,  nor  loved  to  be  admired, 
But  from  their  praises  turned,  and  lived  a  life  retired. 

Although  she  was  unconscious  of  love  herself, 
226 


TASSO 

there  was  a  noble  Christian  youth  who  had  long 
loved  her  in  secret :  — 

Sophronia  hers,  Olhulo  was  his  name  ; 
Born  in  one  town,  by  one  pure  faith  illumed ; 
Modest  —  as  she  was  beautiful,  his  flame 
Feared  much,  hoped  little,  and  in  nought  presumed ; 
He  could  not,  or  he  durst  not  speak,  but  doomed 
To  voiceless  thought  his  passion ;  him  she  slighted, 
Saw  not,  or  would  not  see ;  thus  he  consumed 
Beneath  the  vivid  fire  her  beauty  lighted ; 
Either  not  seen,  ill  known,  or,  known,  but  ill  requited. 

Sophronia  resolves  to  save  her  people :  — 

And  thus  it  was,  when  like  an  omen  drear 
That  summoned  all  her  kindred  to  the  grave, 
The  cruel  mandate  reached  Sophronia's  ear, 
Who,  brave  as  bashful,  yet  discreet  as  brave, 
Mused  how  her  people  she  from  death  might  save  ; 
Courage  inspired,  but  virginal  alarm 
Repressed  the  thought,  till  maiden  shyness  gave 
Place  to  resolve,  or  joined  to  share  the  harm ; 
Boldness  awoke  her  shame,  shame  made  her  boldness  charm. 

She  makes  her  way  to  the  king's  palace,  and  de- 
clares that  she  alone  is  guilty  of  having  stolen  the 
sacred  image  from  the  mosque. 

Thus  she  prepares  a  public  death  to  meet, 
A  people's  ransom  at  a  tyrant's  shrine : 
Oh  glorious  falsehood !  beautiful  deceit ! 
Can  Truth's  own  light  thy  loveliness  outshine  ? 

227 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

To  her  bold  speech  misdoubting1  Aladine 
With  unaccustomed  temper  calm  replied : 
"  If  so  it  were,  who  planned  the  rash  design, 
Advised  thee  to  it,  or  became  thy  guide  ? 
Say,  with  thyself  who  else  his  ill-timed  zeal  allied  ?  " 

"  Of  this  my  glory  not  the  slightest  part 
Would  I,"  said  she,  "  with  one  confederate  share ; 
I  needed  no  adviser ;  my  full  heart 
Alone  sufficed  to  counsel,  guide,  and  dare." 
"  If  so,"  he  cried,  "  then  none  but  thou  must  bear 
The  weight  of  my  resentment,  and  atone 
For  the  misdeed."     "  Since  it  has  beeu  my  care," 
She  said,  "  the  glory  to  enjoy  alone, 
T  is  just  none  share  the  pain ;  it  should  be  all  mine  own." 

To  this  the  tyrant,  now  incensed,  returned, 
"  Where  rests  the  Image  ?  "  and  his  face  became 
Dark  with  resentment ;  she  replied,  "  I  burned 
The  holy  image  in  the  holy  flame, 
And  deemed  it  glory  ;  thus  at  least  no  shame 
Can  e'er  again  profane  it  —  it  is  free 
From  farther  violation ;  dost  thou  claim 
The  spoil  or  spoiler  ?  this  behold  in  me ; 
But  that,  whilst  time  rolls  round,  thou  never  more  ahalt  see. 

"  Albeit  no  spoiler  I ;  it  was  no  wrong 
To  repossess  what  was  by  force  obtained." 
At  this  the  tyrant  loosed  his  threatening  tongue, 
Long-stifled  passion  raging  unrestrained : 
No  longer  hope  that  pardon  may  be  gained, 
Beautiful  face,  high  spirit,  bashful  heart ! 
Vainly  would  Love,  since  mercy  is  disdained, 
And  Anger  flings  his  most  envenomed  dart, 
In  aid  of  you  his  else  protecting  shield  impart ! 
228 


TASSO 

Doomed  in  tormenting  fire  to  die,  they  lay 
Hands  on  the  maid  ;  her  arms  with  rough  cords  twining, 
Rudely  her  mantle  chaste  they  tear  away, 
And  the  white  veil  that  o'er  her  drooped  declining : 
This  she  endured  in  silence  unrepining, 
Yet  her  firm  breast  some  virgin  tremors  shook ; 
And  her  warm  cheek,  Aurora's  late  outshining, 
Waned  into  whiteness,  and  a  colour  took, 
Like  that  of  the  pale  rose,  or  lily  of  the  brook. 

The  crowd  collect ;  the  sentence  is  divulged ; 
With  them  Olindo  comes,  by  pity  swayed ; 
It  might  be  that  the  youth  the  thought  indulged, 
What  if  his  own  Sophronia  were  the  maid ! 
There  stand  the  busy  officers  arrayed 
For  the  last  act,  here  swift  the  flames  arise ; 
But  when  the  pinioned  beauty  stands  displayed 
To  the  full  gaze  of  his  inquiring  eyes,  — 
'T  is  she  !  he  bursts  through  all,  the  crowd  before  him  fliea. 

Aloud  he  cries  :  "  To  her,  oh  not  to  her 
The  crime  belongs,  though  frenzy  may  misplead ! 
She  planned  not,  dared  not,  could  not,  king,  incur 
Sole  and  unskilled  the  guilt  of  such  a  deed ! 
How  lull  the  guards,  or  by  what  process  speed 
The  sacred  Image  from  its  vaulted  cell  ? 
The  theft  was  mine !  and  't  is  my  right  to  bleed !  " 
Alas  for  him !  how  wildly  and  how  well 
He  loved  the  unloving  maid,  let  this  avowal  tell. 

"  I  marked  where  your  high  Mosque  receives  the  air 
And  light  of  heaven ;  I  climbed  the  dizzy  steep, 
I  reached  a  narrow  opening ;  entered  there, 
And  stole  the  Saint,  whilst  all  were  hushed  in  sleep: 

229 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Mine  was  the  crime,  and  shall  another  reap 
The  pain  and  glory  ?  grant  not  her  desire ! 
The  chains  are  mine  ;  for  me  the  guards  may  heap 
Around  the  ready  stake  the  penal  fire ; 
For  me  the  flames  ascend ;  't  is  mine,  that  funeral  pyre ! 

Sophronia  raised  to  him  her  face,  —  her  eye 
Was  filled  with  pity  and  a  starting  tear ; 
She  spoke  —  the  soul  of  sad  humanity 
Was  in  her  voice,  "  What  frenzy  brings  thee  here, 
Unhappy  innocent !  is  death  so  dear, 
Or  am  I  so  ill  able  to  sustain 
A  mortal's  wrath,  that  thou  must  needs  appear  ? 
I  have  a  heart,  too,  that  can  death  disdain, 
Nor  ask  for  life's  hist  hour  companionship  in  pain." 

Thus  she  appeals  to  him  ;  but  scorning  life, 
His  settled  soul  refuses  to  retreat : 
Oh  glorious  scene,  where  in  sublimest  strife 
High-minded  Virtue  and  Affection  meet ! 
Where  death 's  the  prize  of  conquest,  and  defeat 
Seals  its  own  safety,  yet  remains  nnblest ! 
But  indignation  at  their  fond  deceit, 
And  rage,  the  more  inflames  the  tyrant's  breast, 
The  more  this  constant  pair  the  palm  of  guilt  contest. 

He  deems  his  power  despised,  and  that  in  scorn 
Of  him  they  spurn  the  punishment  assigned : 
"  Let,"  he  exclaimed,  "  the  fitting  palm  adorn 
The  brows  of  both !  both  pleas  acceptance  find !  " 
Beckoning  he  bids  the  prompt  tormentors  bind 
Their  galling  chains  around  the  youth  —  't  is  done  ; 
Both  to  one  stake  are,  back  to  back,  consigned, 
Like  sunflowers  twisted  from  their  worshiped  sun, 
Compelled  the  last  fond  looks  of  sympathy  to  shun. 
230 


TASSO 

Thus  both  are  about  to  die,  when  a  knight  ap- 
pears :  — 

Iu  midst  of  their  distress,  a  knight  behold, 
(So  would  it  seem)  of  princely  port !  whose  vest, 
And  arms  of  curious  fashion,  grained  with  gold, 
Bespeak  some  foreign  and  distinguished  guest ; 
The  silver  tigress  on  the  helm  impressed, 
Which  for  a  badge  is  borne,  attracts  all  eyes,  — 
A  noted  cognizance,  the  accustomed  crest 
Used  by  Clorinda,  whence  conjectures  rise, 
Herself  the  stranger  is  —  nor  false  is  their  surmise. 

All  feminine  attractions,  aims,  and  parts, 
She  from  her  childhood  cared  not  to  assume ; 
Her  haughty  hand  disdained  all  servile  arts, 
The  needle,  distaff,  and  Arachne's  loom  ; 
Yet,  though  she  left  the  gay  and  gilded  room 
For  the  free  camp,  kept  spotless  as  the  light 
Her  virgin  fame,  and  proud  of  glory's  plume, 
With  pride  her  aspect  armed ;  she  took  delight 
Stern  to  appear,  and  stern,  she  charmed  the  gazer's  sight. 

This  is  the  first  appearance  of  Clorinda,  who  is 
destined  to  play  so  large  a  part  in  the  poem,  and 
who  shows  the  nobility  of  her  character  by  inter- 
ceding for  the  lovers  with  the  king :  — 

The  throng  falls  back,  and  she  awhile  remains, 
The  fettered  pair  more  closely  to  survey ; 
One  she  sees  silent,  one,  she  sees,  complains, 
The  stronger  spirit  nerves  the  weaker  prey : 
231 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

She  sees  him  mourn  like  one  •whom  the  sad  sway 
Of  powerful  pity  doth  to  tears  chastise, 
Not  grief,  or  grief  not  for  himself ;  but  aye 
Mute  kneels  the  maid,  her  blue  beseeching  eyes 
So  fixed  on  heaven,  she  seems  in  heaven  ere  yet  she  dies. 

Clorinda  melts,  and  with  them  both  condoles ; 
Some  tears  she  sheds,  but  greater  tenderness 
Feels  for  her  grief  who  most  her  grief  controls,  — 
The  silence  moves  her  much,  the  weeping  less ; 
No  longer  now  does  she  delay  to  press 
For  information ;  turning  towards  one 
Of  reverend  years,  she  said  with  eagerness, 
"  Who  are  they  ?  speak !  and  oh,  what  crime  has  won 
This  death  ?  in  Mercy's  name,  declare  the  deed  they  've  done  !  * 

Thus  she  entreats  ;  a  brief  reply  he  gives, 
But  such  as  well  explains  the  whole  event : 
Amazed  she  heard  it,  and  as  soon  conceives 
That  they  are  both  sincerely  innocent ; 
Her  heart  is  for  them,  she  is  wholly  bent 
To  avert  their  fate,  if  either  arms  can  aid, 
Or  earnest  prayers  secure  the  king's  consent ; 
The  fire  she  nears,  commands  it  to  be  stayed, 
Which  now  approached  them  fast,  and  to  the  attendants  said  : 

"  Let  none  of  you  presume  to  prosecute 
Your  barbarous  office,  till  the  king  I  see  ; 
My  word  I  pledge  that  at  Clorinda's  suit, 
Your  fault  he  will  forgive,  if  fault  it  be." 
Moved  by  her  speech  and  queenlike  dignity 
The  guards  obey,  and  she  departs  in  quest 
Of  the  stern  monarch,  urgent  of  her  plea ; 
Midway  they  met ;  the  monarch  she  addressed ; 
And  in  this  skilful  mode  her  generous  purpose  pressed. 
232 


TASSO 

The  king,  delighted  at  having  so  powerful  an  aux- 
iliary in  his  hour  of  danger  and  need,  willingly 
grants  Clorinda's  request,  and  the  lovers  are  saved. 
In  the  mean  time  the  Christian  army  approach 
Jerusalem,  which  they  reach  at  early  dawn,  and 
which  they  greet  with  deep  emotion :  — 

The  odorous  air,  morn's  messenger,  now  spread 
Its  wings  to  herald,  in  serenest  skies, 
Aurora  issuing  forth,  her  radiant  head 
Adorned  with  roses  plucked  in  Paradise  ; 
When  in  full  panoply  the  hosts  arise, 
And  loud  and  spreading  murmurs  upward  fly, 
Ere  yet  the  trumpet  sings ;  its  melodies 
They  miss  not  long,  the  trumpet's  tuneful  cry 
Gives  the  command  to  march,  shrill  sounding  to  the  sky. 

The  skilful  Captain  with  a  gentle  rein 
Guides  their  desires  and  animates  their  force ; 
And  though  't  would  seem  more  easy  to  restrain 
Charyhdis  in  its  mad  volubile  course, 
Or  bridle  Boreas  in,  when  gruffly  hoarse 
He  tempests  Apenninus  and  the  grey 
Ship-shaking  Ocean  to  its  deepest  source,  — 
He  ranks  them,  urges,  rules  them  on  the  way ; 
Swiftly  they  march,  yet  still  with  swiftness  under  sway. 

Winged  is  each  heart,  and  winged  every  heel ; 
They  fly,  yet  notice  not  how  fast  they  fly ; 
But  by  the  time  the  dewless  meads  reveal 
The  fervent  sun's  ascension  in  the  sky, 

233 


THE  GREAT   POETS   OF  ITALY 

Lo,  towered  Jerusalem  salutes  the  eye  ! 

A  thousand  pointing  fingers  tell  the  tale  ! 
"  Jerusalem !  "  a  thousand  voices  cry, 
"  All  hail,  Jerusalem  !  "  hill,  down,  and  dale 
Catch  the  glad  sounds,  and  shout,  "  Jerusalem,  all  hail ! " 

Thus,  when  a  crew  of  fearless  voyagers, 
Seeking  new  lands,  spread  their  audacious  sails 
In  the  hoar  Arctic,  under  unknown  stars, 
Sport  of  the  faithless  waves  and  treacherous  gales ; 
If,  as  their  little  bark  the  billow  scales, 
One  views  the  long-wished  headland  from  the  mast, 
With  merry  shouts  the  far-off  coast  he  hails, 
Each  points  it  out  to  each,  until  at  last 
They  lose  in  present  joy  the  troubles  of  the  past. 

Erminia,  daughter  of  the  deceased  king  of  An- 
tioch,  points  out  to  King  Aladine  from  a  high 
tower  the  famous  warriors  among  the  Christians, 
and  especially  praises  Tancred,  who  had  conquered 
her  father,  made  a  prisoner  of  herself,  and  by 
his  courtesy  and  gentle  treatment  won  her  love. 
A  sortie  is  made  from  the  city,  and  Tancred,  find- 
ing himself  engaged  in  battle  with  Clorinda,  whom 
he  esteems  a  man,  breaks  her  helmet,  and  discover- 
ing her  to  be  the  maiden  whom  he  loves,  refuses  to 
fight  further  with  her. 

Meanwhile  Clorinda  rushes  to  assail 

The  Prince,  and  level  lays  her  spear  renowned ; 

234 


TASSO 

Both  lances  strike,  and  on  the  barred  ventayle 
In  shivers  fly,  and  she  remains  discrowned ; 
For,  hurst  its  silver  rivets,  to  the  ground 
Her  helmet  leaped  (incomparable  blow!) 
And  by  the  rudeness  of  the  shock  unbonnd, 
Her  sex  to  all  the  field  emblazoning1  so, 
Loose  to  the  charmed  winds  her  golden  tresses  flow. 

Then  blazed  her  eyes,  then  flashed  her  angry  glance, 
Sweet  e'en  in  wrath ;  in  laughter  then  what  grace 
Would  not  be  theirs !  —  but  why  that  thoughtful  trance  ? 
And,  Tancred,  why  that  scrutinizing  gaze  ? 
Know'st  not  thine  idol  ?  lo,  the  same  dear  face, 
Whence  sprang  the  flame  that  on  thy  heart  has  preyed ! 
The  sculptured  image  in  its  shrine  retrace, 
And  in  thy  foe  behold  the  noble  maid, 
Who  to  the  sylvan  spring  for  cool  refreshment  strayed. 

He  who  her  painted  shield  and  silver  crest 
Marked  not  at  first,  stood  spell-bound  at  the  sight ; 
She,  guarding  as  she  could  her  head,  still  pressed 
Th'  assault,  and  struck,  but  he  forbore  the  fight, 
And  to  the  rest  transferring  his  despite, 
Plied  fast  his  whirling  sword  ;  yet  not  the  less 
Ceased  she  to  follow  and  upbraid  his  flight, 
With  taunt  and  menace  heightening  his  distress ; 
And, "  Turn,  false  knight !  "  she  cried,  loud  shouting  through  the 
press. 

Thus  begins  the  most  famous  episode  of  the 
"  Jerusalem  Delivered."  For  the  next  half  of  the 
poem  Tancred  and  Clorinda  are  the  real  hero  and 
heroine. 

235 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

In  the  mean  time  Satan  has  called  together  his 
followers  for  consultation.  Among  the  many  plans 
for  holding  the  Christian  army  in  check  is  the 
sending  of  the  beautiful  enchantress  Armida  to  the 
camp  of  Godfrey,  where  she  succeeds  by  her  wiles 
in  drawing  away  from  the  army  a  number  of  the 
bravest  warriors.  The  king  of  Egypt,  with  an 
immense  army,  announces  his  intention  to  help 
Jerusalem,  and  from  this  time  on  this  menace  hov- 
ers like  a  black  cloud  over  the  horizon  of  the  poem, 
ever  approaching  nearer  and  nearer,  till  in  the  last 
canto  the  storm  is  averted  by  the  bravery  of  the 
Christian  warriors  and  the  aid  of  heaven. 

Argantes,  one  of  the  pagan  warriors  of  Jerusa- 
lem, sends  a  herald  to  Godfrey's  camp,  challen- 
ging any  of  his  warriors  to  single  combat.  Tancred 
is  appointed  by  Godfrey  to  accept  the  challenge, 
and  the  two  doughty  champions  fight  all  day  long 
with  no  result.  When  night  comes  on  both  retire, 
bearing  away  serious  wounds.  Erminia,  who  has 
been  in  a  terrible  state  of  anxiety  during  the  com- 
bat, cannot  rest  content  when  night  comes  on,  with- 
out learning  the  condition  of  Tancred's  wounds. 
She  puts  on  Clorinda's  suit  of  armor,  leaves  the 
city,  and  makes  her  way  to  the  Christian  camp, 
first  sending  a  messenger  to  Tancred,  announcing 
236 


TASSO 

that  a  lady  desires  to  see  him.  The  scene  which 
follows  is  very  picturesque,  describing  as  it  does 
the  silence  of  the  night  and  the  distant  view  of  the 
tents :  — 

But  she  meanwhile  impatient,  in  whose  eyes 
Each  moment  seemed  an  age,  to  care  a  prey, 
Counts  to  herself  each  separate  step,  and  cries, 
"  Now  he  arrives,  now  speaks,  now  hastes  away ;  " 
Next  she  upbraids  his  indolent  delay ; 
Chides  his  unusual  want  of  diligence ; 
And,  weary  grown  of  his  eternal  stay, 
Spurs  till  she  gains  the  nearest  eminence, 
Whence  her  dilating  eye  discerns  the  distant  tents. 

On  high  were  the  clear  stars ;  the  gentle  Hours 
Walked  cloudless  through  the  galaxy  of  space, 
And  the  calm  moon  rose,  lighting  up  the  flowers 
With  frost  of  living  pearl :  like  her  in  grace, 
Th'  enamoured  maid  from  her  illumined  face 
Reflected  light  where'er  she  chanced  to  rove ; 
And  made  the  silent  Spirit  of  the  place, 
The  hills,  the  melancholy  moon  above, 
And  the  dumb  valleys  round,  familiars  of  her  love. 

Seeing  the  Camp,  she  whispered,  "  0  ye  fair 
Italian  tents !  how  amiable  ye  show ! 
The  breathing  winds  that  such  refreshment  bear, 
Ravish  my  soul,  for  't  is  from  you  they  blow  I 
So  may  relenting  Heaven  on  me  bestow,  — 
On  me,  by  f  roward  Fate  so  long  distressed, 
A  chaste  repose  from  weariness  and  woe, 
As  in  your  compass  only  lies  my  quest ; 
As  'tis  your  arms  alone  can  give  my  spirit  rest. 
237 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

"  Receive  me  then,  and  in  you  let  me  find 
Love's  gentle  voice,  which  spoke  of  pity,  true ; 
And  that  delightful  music  of  the  mind, 
Which  in  my  blest  captivity  I  drew 
From  my  lord's  mercy ;  patronized  by  you, 
I  have  no  wish  to  re-obtain  and  wear 
My  regal  crown,  —  adieu,  vain  pomps,  adieu  / 
Enough  for  me  if  Tancred  grants  my  prayer ; 
More  blest  in  you  to  serve,  than  reign  a  queen  elsewhere." 

Ah,  little  does  she  think,  while  thus  she  dreams, 
What  is  prepared  for  her  by  Fortune's  spite ! 
She  is  so  placed,  that  the  moon's  placid  beams 
In  line  direct  upon  her  armour  light ; 
So  far  remote  into  the  shades  of  night 
The  silver  splendour  is  conveyed,  and  she 
Surrounded  is  with  brilliancy  so  bright, 
That  whosoe'er  might  chance  her  crest  to  see, 
Would  of  a  truth  conclude  it  must  Clorinda  be. 

Two  sentinels  see  her,  and  believing  her  to  be 
Clorinda,  pursue  her.  She  flies,  and  is  carried  by 
her  horse  many  miles  away,  finally  reaching  a 
shepherd's  cottage  on  the  banks  of  the  Jordan, 
where  for  some  time  she  takes  up  her  abode  far 
from  war's  alarms  and  the  "pangs  of  despised 
love."  The  description  of  Erminia's  life  here  is 
much  admired  for  its  delineations  of  the  charm  of 
rural  life  :  — 

She  slept,  till  in  her  dreaming  ear  the  bowers 
Whispered,  the  gay  birds  warbled  of  the  dawn ; 

238 


TASSO 

The  river  roared ;  the  winds  to  the  young  flowers 
Made  love ;  the  blithe  bee  wound  its  dulcet  horn ; 
Roused  by  the  mirth  and  melodies  of  morn, 
Her  languid  eyes  she  opens,  and  perceives 
The  huts  of  shepherds  on  the  lonely  lawn  ; 
Whilst  seeming  voices,  twixt  the  waves  and  leaves 
Call  back  her  scattered  thoughts,  —  again  she  sighs  and  grieves. 

Her  plaints  were  silenced  by  soft  music,  sent 
As  from  a  rural  pipe,  such  sounds  as  cheer 
The  Syrian  shepherd  in  his  summer  tent, 
And  mixed  with  pastoral  accents,  rude  but  clear. 
She  rose  and  gently,  guided  by  her  ear, 
Came  where  an  old  man  on  a  rising  ground 
In  the  fresh  shade,  his  white  flocks  feeding  near, 
Twig-baskets  wove,  and  listened  to  the  sound 
Trilled  by  three  blooming  boys,  who  sate  disporting  round. 

The  shepherd,  pitying  Erminia's  distress,  takes 
her  to  his  wife,  and  she  thus  becomes  a  member  of 
the  humble  but  happy  household. 

And  straight,  with  all  a  father's  love  and  zeal, 
He  took  her  to  his  heart,  soothed  her  distress, 
And  to  his  wife,  whose  heart  alike  could  feel 
For  others'  sorrows,  led  the  fair  Princess. 
Her  arms  she  changes  for  a  pastoral  dress, 
And  with  rude  ribbon  binds  her  dainty  hair ; 
Yet  still,  her  graceful  manner  of  address, 
Movement  of  eyes  and  steps  the  truth  declare,  — 
Was  never  woodland  girl  so  delicately  fair ! 

Those  rustic  weeds  hid  not  the  princely  fire 
And  grandeur  so  instinctively  her  own ; 

239 


THE  GEEAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Iii  every  action  through  her  quaint  attire, 
The  latent  spirit  of  the  Lady  shone ; 
Whether  she  drove  her  flocks  to  range  alone 
The  thymy  down,  or  penned  them  in  the  fold ; 
Or  to  wild  ditties  sung  in  mournful  tone, 
The  dulcet  cream  in  churns  revolving  rolled, 
Till  firm  the  fluid  fixed,  and  took  the  tinge  of  gold. 

Oft  when  her  flocks,  from  summer's  noontide  rays, 
Lay  in  cool  shades  overarched  by  gadding  vines, 
She  carved  on  beeches  and  immortal  bays 
Her  Tancred's  name,  and  left  the  mossy  pines 
With  sad  inscriptions  flourished,  silent  signs 
Of  the  unhappy  flame  her  fancy  fed  ; 
And  when  again  she  saw  her  own  fond  lines, 
As  she  the  melancholy  fragments  read, 
Fresh  tears  of  grief,  unchecked,  her  lovely  eyes  would  shed. 

And  weeping  she  would  say :  "  For  ever  be, 
O  ye  dear  trees,  historians  of  my  woe  ! 
That  when  two  faithful  lovers  rest,  like  me, 
In  the  cool  shade  your  verdant  boughs  bestow, 
Their  hearts  with  generous  sympathy  may  glow ; 
And,  as  this  volume  of  my  griefs  they  view, 
Say  to  themselves,  '  Ah,  never  may  we  know 
Her  pangs,  poor  maid  !  't  is  hard  a  love  so  true 
Should  be  so  ill  repaid  by  Love  and  Fortune,  too ! '  " 

In  the  mean  time  many  events  are  taking  place 
between  the  Christians  and  pagans,  sorties,  single 
combats,  and  attacks  on  the  walls  of  the  city.  God- 
frey has  caused  powerful  engines  of  war  to  be  built, 
especially  a  mighty  movable  tower,  so  high  that  it 
240 


TASSO 

overtops  the  walls  of  the  city.  Clorinda,  eager  for 
glory,  undertakes  one  night  to  destroy  the  tower,  in 
spite  of  the  warning  of  her  old  servant  Arsetes,  who 
tells  her  the  story  of  her  birth,  and  reveals  the  fact 
that  she  is  of  Christian  parentage.  She  issues  forth, 
succeeds  in  setting  fire  to  the  tower,  but  not  being 
able  to  reenter  the  city,  flies,  followed  by  Tan- 
cred,  who  not  recognizing  her,  fights  with  her  and, 
to  his  own  eternal  sorrow,  slays  her.  This  passage 
is  regarded  as  the  most  beautiful  of  the  whole 
poem: 

Faint  on  their  swords,  with  like  exhausted  frame, 
Alike  they  rest,  and  echo  gaze  for  gaze  : 
Fades  the  last  star  ;  Aurora  robed  in  flame, 
Unbars  Elysium,  and  the  morning  plays ; 
Tancred  perceives,  beneath  its  grateful  rays, 
From  her  the  trickling  blood  profusely  rain, 
And  glories  in  the  languor  she  displays : 
Oh  man,  vain  man  !  poor  fool  of  pride  and  pain ! 
Puffed  up  with  every  breath  from  Fortune's  wavering  vane ! 

Why  that  proud  smile  ?  sad,  oh  how  sad,  shall  be 
Thy  acted  triumphs  when  the  illusion  clears ! 
Thine  eyes  shall  weep,  if  still  the  light  they  see, 
For  every  drop  of  blood  a  sea  of  tears ; 
Thus  resting,  gazing,  full  of  hopes  and  fears, 
The  bleeding  warriors,  silent  as  the  dead, 
Stood  for  a  space  ;  at  length  some  feelings  fierce 
Tancred  deposed,  —  kind  thoughts  rose  in  their  stead, 
He  wished  her  name  to  know,  and,  breaking  silence,  said: 
241 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

"  Hard  is  our  chance,  our  prowess  thus  to  spend 
On  deeds  which  silence  and  these  shades  conceal ; 
To  which  thwart  Fortune  yields  no  praise,  no  friend 
On  our  viewed  acts  to  set  his  speaking  seal ! 
Yet,  if  amid  the  sullen  shock  of  steel 
Prayers  may  have  access,  courtesies  find  place, 
Thy  name,  thy  country,  and  thy  rank  reveal ; 
That  I,  whatever  issue  crown  the  case, 
May  know  at  least  who  gives  my  death  or  victory  grace.** 

Sternly  she  said :  "  Thy  prayer  no  access  wins ; 
Custom  forbids  ;  but,  whatsoe'er  my  name, 
Thou  seest  before  thee  one  of  those  brave  twins, 
Who  gave  your  towering  structure  to  the  flame." 
Fired  at  her  answer,  Tancred  made  exclaim  : 
"  In  evil  hour  hast  thou  thy  guilt  avowed ; 
Thy  speech  and  silence  are  to  me  the  same, 
Discourteous  wretch,  contemptible  as  proud ! 
Both  chide  my  sloth,  and  both  for  vengeance  plead  aloud." 

Rage  to  their  hearts  returns,  and  spurs  them  on, 
Though  weak,  to  war ;  dire  war !  from  which  the  sleights 
Of  art  are  banished,  whence  all  strength  is  gone. 
And  in  the  room  of  both,  brute  fury  fights ; 
Oh,  sharp  his  falchion,  sharp  her  sabre  smites  ! 
What  bloody  gaps  they  make  through  plate  and  chain, 
In  their  soft  flesh  !  revenge,  revenge  requites ; 
If  life  parts  not,  't  is  only  that  disdain 
Knits  it  in  pure  despite  to  the  rebellious  brain. 

As  the  deep  Euxine,  though  the  wind  no  more 
Blows,  that  late  tossed  its  billows  to  the  stars, 
Stills  not  at  once  its  rolling  and  its  roar, 
But  with  its  coasts  long  time  conflicting  jars  j 
242 


TASSO 

Thus,  though  their  quickly-ebbing  blood  debars 
Force  from  their  blades  as  vigour  from  their  arms, 
Still  lasts  the  frenzy  of  the  flame  which  Mars 
Blew  in  their  breasts ;  sustained  by  whose  strong  charms, 
Yet  heap  they  strokes  on  strokes,  yet  harms  inflict  on  harms. 

But  now,  alas  !  the  fatal  hour  arrives 
That  must  shut  up  Clorinda's  life  in  shade  : 
In  her  fair  bosom  deep  his  sword  he  drives  ; 
'T  is  done  —  life's  purple  fountain  bathes  the  blade ! 
The  golden  flowered  cymar  of  light  brocade, 
That  swathed  so  tenderly  her  breasts  of  snow, 
Is  steeped  in  the  warm  stream  :  the  hapless  maid 
Feels  her  end  nigh  ;  her  knees  their  strength  forego ; 
And  her  enfeebled  frame  droops  languishing  and  low. 

He,  following  up  the  thrust  with  taunting  cries, 
Lays  the  pierced  Virgin  at  his  careless  feet ; 
She  as  she  falls,  in  mournful  tones  ontsighs, 
Her  last  faint  words,  pathetically  sweet ; 
Which  a  new  spirit  prompts,  a  spirit  replete 
With  charity,  and  faith,  and  hope  serene, 
Sent  dove-like  down  from  God's  pure  mercy-seat ; 
Who,  though  through  life  his  rebel  she  had  been, 
Would  have  her  die  a  fond,  repentant  Magdalene. 

"  Friend,  thou  hast  won ;  I  pardon  thee,  and  oh 
Forgive  thou  me !  I  fear  not  for  this  clay, 
But  my  dark  soul  —  pray  for  it,  and  bestow 
The  sacred  rite  that  laves  all  stains  away  :" 
Like  dying  hymns  heard  far  at  close  of  day, 
Sounding  I  know  not  what  in  the  soothed  ear 
Of  sweetest  sadness,  the  faint  words  make  way 
To  his  fierce  heart,  and  touched  with  grief  sincere, 
Streams  from  his  pitying  eye  the  involuntary  tear. 
243 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Not  distant,  gushing  from  the  rocks,  a  rill 
Clashed  on  his  ear ;  to  this  with  eager  pace 
He  speeds  —  his  hollow  casque  the  waters  fill  — 
And  back  he  hurries  to  the  deed  of  grace  ; 
His  hands  as  aspens  tremble,  whilst  they  raise 
The  locked  aventayle  of  the  unknown  knight ;  — 
God,  for  thy  mercy  !  't  is  her  angel  face  ! 
Aghast  and  thunderstruck,  he  loathes  the  light ; 
Ah,  knowledge  best  unknown!  ah,  too  distracting  sight! 

Yet  still  he  lived ;  and  mustering  all  his  powers 
To  the  sad  task,  restrained  each  wild  lament, 
Fain  to  redeem  by  those  baptismal  showers 
The  life  his  sword  bereft :  whilst  thus  intent 
The  hallowing  words  he  spoke,  with  ravishment 
Her  face  transfigured  shone,  and  half  apart 
Her  bland  lips  shed  a  lively  smile  that  sent 
This  silent  speech  in  sunshine  to  his  heart : 
Heaven  gleams ;  in  blissful  peace  behold  thy  friend  depart !  " 

A  paleness  beauteous  as  the  lily's  mixed 
With  the  sweet  violet's,  like  a  gust  of  wind 
Flits  o'er  her  face  ;  her  eyes  on  Heaven  are  fixed, 
And  heaven  on  her  returns  its  looks  as  kind  : 
Speak  she  can  not ;  but  her  cold  hand,  declined, 
In  pledge  of  peace  on  Tancred  she  bestows  ; 
And  to  her  fate  thus  tenderly  resigned, 
In  her  meek  beauty  she  expires,  and  shows 
But  as  a  smiling  saint  indulging  soft  repose. 

But  when  he  saw  her  starlike  spirit  set, 
The  self-possession  which  had  manned  his  soul, 
Bent  to  the  storm  of  anguishing  regret 
That  o'er  his  bosom  burst  beyond  control : 
244 


TASSO 

Pangs  of  despair  convulsed  his  heart ;  life  stole 
As  to  its  last  recess ;  death's  icy  dew 
Bathed  his  pale  brow,  his  blood  forebore  to  roll ; 
Till  like  the  breathless  dead  the  living  grew, 
In  dullness,  silence,  air,  and  attitude,  and  hue. 

And  sure  his  life,  impatient  of  the  light, 
Struggling  had  burst  in  its  rebellious  scorn 
From  its  weak  chain,  and  followed  in  its  flight 
The  beauteous  spirit,  that,  but  just  re-born, 
Had  spread  its  wings  in  sunshine  of  the  morn,  — 
Had  not  a  party  of  the  Franks,  dispread 
In  search  of  water  o'er  the  gleaming  lawn, 
By  providential  guidance  thither  led, 
Seen  where  he  lay  supine,  the  dying  by  the  dead. 

Their  Chief,  though  distant,  by  his  armour  knew 
The  Latin  Prince,  and  hastened  to  the  place  ; 
The  lifeless  beauty  he  remembered  too 
For  Tancred's  love,  and  mourned  her  fatal  case  ; 
He  would  not  leave  a  form  so  full  of  grace, 
Albeit  a  Pagan,  as  he  deemed,  a  prey 
To  wolves,  but  lifting,  in  a  little  space, 
To  others'  arms  both  bodies  whence  they  lay, 
Took  straight  to  Tancred's  tent  his  melancholy  way. 

Not  yet  the  knight,  so  equably  and  slow 
They  marched,  from  his  dark  trance  awakened  was  ; 
But  feeble  groans  at  intervals  might  show 
Some  sands  still  glided  in  his  vital  glass  ; 
The  Lady  lay  a  mute  and  stirless  mass, 
Nor  breath,  nor  pulse  gave  hope  that  life  was  there 
Incorporate  with  its  beauty  :  thus  they  pass  ; 
Thus,  side  by  side,  the  two,  lamenting  bear ; 
And  in  adjoining  rooms  dispose  with  silent  care. 
245 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Clorinda  being  dead,  Tancred  has  little  desire 
to  live,  but  is  comforted  by  a  vision  of  her  in  hea- 
ven: — 

On  her  at  smile  of  morn,  for  her  at  frown 
Of  eve  be  calls,  he  murmurs,  and  complains  ; 
Like  a  lorn  nightingale  when  some  rude  clown 
Has  stolen  her  plumeless  brood  ;  in  piercing  strains 
She  fills  the  dying  winds,  and  woods,  and  plains 
With  her  sweet  quarrel ;  all  night  long  she  weeps. 
And  to  the  listening  stars  repeats  her  pains, 
Till  morn  with  rosy  tears  the  forest  steeps ;  — 
Then  on  his  streaming  eyes  awhile  calm  slumber  creeps. 

And,  clad  in  starry  robes,  the  maid  for  whom 
He  mourned,  appears  amid  his  mourning  dreams  ; 
Fairer  than  erst,  but  by  the  deathless  bloom 
And  heavenly  radiance  that  around  her  beams, 
Graced,  not  disguised ;  in  sweetest  act  she  seems 
To  stoop,  and  wipe  away  the  tears  that  flow 
From  his  dim  eyes  :  "  Behold  what  glory  streams 
Round  me,"  she  cries ;  "  how  beauteous  now  I  show, 
And  for  my  sake,  dear  friend,  this  waste  of  grief  forego. 

"  Thee  for  my  bliss  I  thank ;  Earth's  sordid  clod 
Thou  by  a  happy  error  forced  to  quit, 
And  for  the  glorious  Paradise  of  God 
By  sacred  baptism  mad'st  my  spirit  fit : 
There  now  midst  angels  and  blest  saints  I  sit 
In  rapturous  love  and  fellowship  divine ; 
There  may  our  souls  together  yet  be  knit, 
And  there  in  fields  where  suns  eternal  shine, 
Shalt  thou  at  once  enjoy  their  loveliness  and  mine ; 
246 


TASSO 

"  If  by  thy  passions  nnseduced,  if  thon 
Grudge  not  thyself  the  bliss  ;  live  then,  Sir  Knight, 
Know  that  I  love  thee,  far  as  Love  can  bow 
For  aught  of  earthly  mould  a  Child  of  Light !  " 
As  thus  she  spoke,  her  glowing  eyes  shone  bright 
With  an  immortal's  fervour ;  rosy  red 
She  in  the  mild  irradiance  shut  from  sight 
Her  face,  like  a  sweet  flower,  her  fans  outspread, 
And  in  his  drooping  soul  celestial  comfort  shed. 

Up  to  this  time  the  most  prominent  characters  in 
the  poem  have  been  Tailored  and  Clorinda.  This 
state  of  things  now  changes  and  the  real  hero,  Ri- 
naldo,  who  like  Achilles  has  long  been  absent  from 
the  field  of  action,  reappears  and  brings  matters  to 
a  climax. 

We  have  already  seen  how  Armida  has  come  to 
camp  and  carried  off  a  number  of  the  Christian 
warriors.  At  the  same  time  Rinaldo,  in  a  contest 
over  the  question  as  to  who  should  succeed  Dudo 
(killed  in  the  first  skirmish  between  the  crusad- 
ers and  the  pagans),  had  slain  Gernando  in  the 
presence  of  the  whole  army,  and  was  forced  to  fly 
the  wrath  of  Godfrey.  He,  after  having  freed  the 
fifty  knights  from  the  power  of  Armida,  is  himself 
caught  by  her  wiles,  and  carried  off  by  her  to  a 
gorgeous  palace  situated  in  the  midst  of  a  beauti- 
ful garden,  on  a  high  mountain  in  the  island  of 
247 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Teneriffe.  Here,  lost  in  luxury  and  idleness,  he 
sleeps  out  the  thought  of  his  duty  as  a  Christian 
warrior. 

In  the  mean  time  Godfrey,  by  various  supernat- 
ural tokens,  learns  that  Rinaldo  alone  can  bring 
about  the  final  success  of  the  Christian  arms.  He 
is  thus  induced  to  pardon  his  crime,  which  indeed 
had  in  a  certain  sense  been  justified,  and  sends  two 
messengers  to  bring  him  back.  These  embark  on 
a  magic  vessel,  traverse  the  Mediterranean,  pass 
the  strait  of  Gibraltar,  enter  the  Atlantic,  and  reach 
the  island  of  Teneriffe.  The  descriptions  of  this 
voyage  and  the  allusion  to  Columbus  are  famous 
and  well  deserve  to  be  quoted,  if  we  had  the  space. 
It  is  especially  interesting  to  compare  this  fictitious 
voyage  into  the  Atlantic  Ocean  with  that  of  Ulys- 
ses in  Dante's  "  Inferno,"  written  before  —  as  the 
"  Jerusalem  Delivered  "  was  written  shortly  after  — 
the  discovery  of  America. 

The  ambassadors  arrive  at  the  island,  climb  the 
mountain,  overcome  all  obstacles,  enter  the  en- 
chanted garden,  and  discover  Rinaldo,  surrounded 
by  all  the  beauty  of  nature  and  the  magnificence 
of  art. 

This  is  the  haven  of  the  world  ;  here  Rest 
Dwells  with  Composure,  and  that  perfect  bliss, 
248 


TASSO 

Which  in  the  Golden  Age  fond  men  possessed, 
In  liberty  and  love,  unknown  to  this  ; 
You  now  may  lay  aside  th'  incumbrances 
Of  arms,  and  safely  hang  them  on  the  trees, 
Sacred  to  Peace  ;  all  else  but  folly  is  ; 
Seek  then  soft  quiet,  seek  indulgent  ease, 
Love  's  the  sole  captain  here,  young  Love  's  the  lord  to  please. 

Midst  the  same  leaves  and  on  the  self-same  twig 
The  rosy  apple  with  th'  unripe  is  seen ; 
Hung  on  one  bough  the  old  and  youthful  fig, 
The  golden  orange  glows  beside  the  green ; 
And  aye,  where  sunniest  stations  intervene, 
Creeps  the  curled  vine  luxuriant  high  o'erhead  ; 
Here  the  sour  grape  just  springs  the  flowers  between, 
Here  yellowing,  purpling,  blushing  ruby  red, 
Here  black,  the  clusters  burst,  and  heavenly  nectar  shed. 

The  joyful  birds  sing  sweet  in  the  green  bowers ; 
Murmur  the  winds ;  and,  in  their  fall  and  rise, 
Strike  from  the  fruits,  leaves,  fountains,  brooks,  and  flowen 
A  thousand  strange  celestial  harmonies  ; 
When  cease  the  birds,  the  zephyr  loud  replies ; 
When  sing  the  birds,  it  faints  amidst  the  trees 
To  whispers  soft  as  lovers'  farewell  sighs ; 
Thus,  whether  loud  or  low,  the  bird  the  breeze, 
The  breeze  obeys  the  bird,  and  each  with  each  agrees. 

One  bird  there  flew,  renowned  above  the  rest, 
With  party-coloured  plumes  and  purple  bill, 
That  in  a  language  like  our  own  expressed 
Her  joys,  but  with  such  sweetness,  sense,  and  skill, 
As  did  the  hearer  with  amazement  fill ; 
So  far  her  fellows  she  outsang,  that  they 
Worshipped  the  wonder ;  every  one  grew  still 
249 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

At  her  rich  voice,  and  listened  to  the  lay  : 
Dumb  were  the  woods  —  the  winds  and  whispers  died  away. 

The  messengers  succeed  in  arousing  the  dormant 
nobility  of  Rinaldo ;  he  tears  himself  away,  follows 
them  to  the  camp  of  Godfrey,  is  pardoned  by  the 
latter,  succeeds  in  breaking  the  spell  of  the  en- 
chanted forest,  and  thus  prepares  the  way  for  the 
building  of  new  war-machines.  The  city  then  is 
assaulted  and  taken,  and  finally  the  Egyptian  army, 
which  now  appears  on  the  scene,  is  defeated,  and 
the  poem  ends.1 

1  A  complete  translation  of  the  Jerusalem  Delivered  by  Wiffen 
is  published  in  the  Bohn  Library.  An  older  translation  by  Fair- 
fax was  published  in  1600,  and  has  frequently  been  reprinted 
since.  Longfellow  calls  Fairfax's  translation  "  a  grand  book  " 
(Life,  vol.  i.p.  315). 


250 


VIII 

THE   PERIOD   OF  DECADENCE 
AND    THE    REVIVAL 

I  N  the  history  of  Italian  literature,  Dante,  to 
expand  a  figure  already  used,  stands  at  the  end  of 
the  Middle  Ages  like  a  lofty,  solitary  mountain 
peak ;  behind  him  the  scene  fades  away  into  dark- 
ness ;  before  him  the  landscape,  shone  upon  by  the 
first  rays  of  a  new  epoch,  slopes  gradually  upward 
until  with  Petrarch,  Boccaccio,  and  the  great  writers 
of  the  Renaissance,  we  have  a  lofty  and  widely  ex- 
tended plateau.  After  Tasso  there  is  a  sudden  de- 
scent to  a  low,  level,  uniform  plain,  in  which  Italian 
literature  drags  itself  along  until  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  when  again  an  upward  slope  is 
noticed,  which  for  the  next  hundred  years  becomes 
more  and  more  accentuated. 

Hardly  had  the  Renaissance  reached  its  height 

in  the  early  decades  of  the  sixteenth  century  when 

a  reaction  set  in.    The  whole  movement  had  been 

intellectual  rather  than  moral ;  it  had  been  marked 

251 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

by  "  light  rather  than  by  warmth,"  by  "  ideas  rather 
than  by  conscience."  To  the  brilliant  side  of  life  so 
characteristic  of  the  sixteenth  century  corresponded 
a  darker  side.  Unbelief  in  religious  matters  was 
general.  Morals  were  at  a  low  ebb,  even  among  the 
clergy,  the  Pope  himself  not  excepted.  The  re- 
cord of  crimes,  murder,  gambling,  unnatural  vice, 
given  in  the  histories  of  the  times,  is  appalling. 
At  the  very  time  when  the  beneficent  results  of 
the  Renaissance  were  spreading  abroad  (producing 
in  Germany  the  Reformation),  Italy  was  already 
beginning  to  slide  down  that  steep  incline  which 
finally  landed  her  in  a  state  of  degradation  as  low 
as  her  previous  glory  had  been  high. 

When  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  died  in  1492,  the 
political  equilibrium  which  that  wise  statesman  had 
maintained  in  Italy  was  broken.  In  the  bitter 
strife  between  the  ruler  of  Milan,  Ludovico  il  Moro, 
and  the  court  of  Naples,  the  former  invited  Charles 
VIII  to  invade  Italy  and  to  make  good  his  rights 
as  a  descendant  of  Charles  of  Anjou  to  the  former 
kingdom  of  Sicily.  Charles  accepted  the  invitation, 
and  from  that  time  on  until  1748  devoted  Italy 
became  the  battle-ground  first  of  the  rival  powers 
of  Spain  and  France,  and  later  of  the  houses  of 
Bourbon  and  Hapsburg. 

252 


THE   DECADENCE   AND   REVIVAL 

In  the  first  of  these  long-drawn-out  wars  Spain 
was  victorious,  and  from  1559  to  1648  its  influ- 
ence was  predominant.  This  period  is  one  of  the 
saddest  in  the  history  of  Italy.  The  great  provinces 
of  Milan,  Naples,  Sicily,  and  Sardinia  were  ruled 
by  tyrannical  Spanish  viceroys,  while  the  rest  of 
the  country  was  subject  to  Spanish  influence.  No 
government  ever  had  less  care  for  a  subject  land 
than  did  that  of  Spain.  Justice  was  corrupt,  the 
system  of  finance  was  one  of  extortion  and  oppres- 
sion, taxes  were  enormous.  The  Spanish  viceroys 
and  their  ignoble  imitators,  the  Italian  nobles,  lived 
a  life  of  luxury  and  vice,  surrounded  by  bandits 
and  brigands,  and  by  paralyzing  all  commerce  and 
industry  brought  on  famine  and  pestilence. 

The  religious  condition  was  no  better.  The 
Catholic  reaction,  or  Counter  Reformation,  which 
culminated  in  the  Council  of  Trent,  fastened  still 
more  firmly  the  chains  of  mediaeval  superstition 
and  dogmatism  on  the  mass  of  the  Italian  people. 
The  absolute  power  of  the  Pope  was  reaffirmed ; 
two  mighty  instruments  were  forged  to  crush  out 
heresy  and  opposition,  —  the  Inquisition,  which  ef- 
fectually choked  free  thought,  and  the  Jesuits,  who 
found  their  way  stealthily  into  all  ranks  and  classes 
of  society.  Such  was  the  condition  of  Italy  at  this 
253 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

time,  "  a  prolonged,  a  solemn,  an  inexpressibly 
heartrending  tragedy."  The  effect  on  the  social  life 
of  Italy  was  almost  fatal.  Everywhere,  to  use  the 
almost  exaggerated  language  of  Symonds,  were  to 
be  seen  idleness,  disease,  brigandage,  destitution, 
ignorance,  superstition,  hypocrisy,  vice,  ruin,  pesti- 
lence, "  while  over  the  Dead  Sea  of  social  putre- 
faction floated  the  sickening  oil  of  Jesuit  hypo- 
crisy." 

From  1648  to  1748,  the  state  of  affairs  was  not 
much  better,  the  only  difference  being  that  it  was 
now  the  House  of  Hapsburg  that  held  the  balance 
of  power  in  Northern  and  Central  Italy,  while  the 
French  and  Spanish  finally  founded  the  Bourbon 
dynasty  in  Naples  which  lasted  till  1860,  when  it 
was  destroyed  by  the  famous  expedition  of  the 
Thousand  under  Garibaldi. 

The  literature  of  Italy  during  all  this  long  period 
was  in  harmony  with  its  political  and  moral  condi- 
tion. It  sank  to  its  lowest  ebb.  Already  in  the 
sixteenth  century  an  impulse  to  a  literature  corrupt 
in  style  and  subject  had  been  given.  Sannazaro, 
whose  influence  had  been  so  great,  was  full  of  puerile 
conceits,  far-fetched  figures,  and  all  the  exaggera- 
tions of  the  school  of  Petrarch.  This  same  tendency 
was  carried  to  still  greater  excess  by  Cariteo  and 
254 


THE   DECADENCE  AND   REVIVAL 

Tebaldeo.1  These,  not  Dante  or  Petrarch,  were  the 
masters  of  the  poets  of  the  early  seventeenth  century, 
— at  the  head  of  whom  was  Giovanni  Battista  Marini 
(1569-1625),  the  author  of  the  famous  "  Adone." 
Marini,  although  born  in  Italy,  spent  a  number  of 
years  in  Paris,  where  he  was  looked  upon  as  a  great 
poet,  and  where  he  wrote  his  version  of  the  love  of 
Venus  for  Adonis,  —  a  subject  that  had  already 
occupied  the  pen  of  Shakespeare  a  few  years  before. 
This  vast  poem  of  some  45,000  lines  contains  little 
or  no  action.  All  is  description  of  artificial  nature 
and  of  female  beauty  expressed  hi  a  kind  of  volup- 
tuous music  of  verse,  in  which  the  entire  repertory 

* 

1  The  following  is  a  good  example  of  the  extent  to  which  these 
conceits  were  carried.  The  Lady  of  Tebaldeo,  while  dancing  at 
a  ball,  begins  to  bleed  from  the  nose  ;  it  is  Love  who  has  struck 
her.  But  Love,  being  blind,  makes  a  mistake  and  instead  of  strik- 
ing her  heart,  as  he  intended,  struck  her  nose.  His  Lady  is  one 
day  walking  in  a  snowstorm ;  everybody  is  amazed  to  see  snow 
falling  and  the  sun  shining.  Serafino,  a  pupil  of  Tebaldeo,  is  still 
more  puerile.  The  precious  stone  which  his  Lady  wears  on  her 
finger  is  a  flower  petrified  by  a  glance  of  her  eyes.  A  missing 
tooth  is  a  corridor  opened  by  Love,  who,  lodged  in  his  Lady's 
mouth,  has  torn  out  the  tooth  in  order  to  watch  the  enemy.  Sera- 
fino is  so  inflamed  with  love  that  his  sighs  roast  the  birds  of  the 
air ;  he  flings  himself  into  the  sea,  but  the  sea  is  set  on  fire  and 
burns  even  the  rocks  on  the  shore.  He  swallows  snow,  bnt  this  is 
itself  changed  to  fire  in  his  stomach.  Cf .  Monnier,  Le  Quattro- 
cento, vol.  ii.  pp.  403,  404. 

255 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

of  Preciosity  runs  riot.  This  book  was  enormously 
popular,  not  only  in  Italy  but  in  France.  It  in? 
troduced,  or  at  least  exerted  a  mighty  influence 
on,  that  peculiar  phenomenon  of  literature  known 
as  Marinism  in  Italy,  Preciosity  hi  France,  Gon- 
gorism  in  Spain,  and  Euphuism  in  England.  The 
following  extracts,  in  which  is  described  the  death 
of  Adonis,  will  give  some  idea  of  this  extravagant 
style,  and  may  stand  as  a  type  of  Italian  poetry 
during  the  whole  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
Adonis  attempts  to  slay  a  wild  boar,  but  is  unable 
to  pierce  the  tough  hide  of  his  adversary. 

That  soft  white  hand  now  hurls  the  threatening  spear, 
Straining  each  nerve,  against  the  monster's  side, 
But,  ah  !  in  vain,  to  check  his  fierce  career ; 
Harmless  it  flew,  nor  drew  the  crimson  tide  ; 
And  stouter  heart  and  stouter  arm  might  fear 
To  urge  the  quivering  point,  he  vainly  tried, 
Through  that  dark  bristling  shield  ;  like  some  firm  wall, 
Or  anvil  fixed  it  stood  ;  no  red  drops  fall. 

Adonis  saw  ;  his  purple  cheeks  grew  pale  ; 
The  startled  blood  flew  to  his  throbbing  breast ; 
Late  he  repents,  late  sees  his  bold  hopes  fail, 
And  doubts,  and  turns  to  fly,  while  onward  prest 
The  terrors  of  his  foe,  that  ever  quail 
Young  hunters'  hearts ;  sharp  growl,  erected  crest, 
And  rapid  pace,  with  eyes  more  fearful  bright 
Than  meteors  seen  'mid  darkest  clouds  of  night. 

256 


THE  DECADENCE  AND  REVIVAL 

He  is  pursued  by  the  monster,  wounded  again  and 
again  by  the  sharp  tusks,  and  dies  lamented  by 
Venus  and  all  nature. 

Soft  breathing  sighs,  sweet  languor,  sweetest  hue 
Of  pallid  flowers,  Death's  ensigns  beautiful,      * 
With  Love's  triumphant  smiles,  no  terrors  threw 
O'er  his  bright  face  and  form,  and  eyes  late  full 
Of  amorous  fires.     Though  quenched  those  orbs  of  blue, 
Their  beauty  doth  not  yet  look  cold  or  dull : 
Shining,  as  Love  and  Death,  young  brothers  were, 
And  sported  midst  those  graces,  cold  as  fair. 

Cool  fountains  shed  their  urns,  warm-gushing  tears, 

Proud  oaks  and  pines  low  bend  their  mournful  heads, 

And  Alpine  height,  and  forest  murmuring  hears, 

And  pours  a  flood  of  sorrow  o'er  the  meads. 

Now  weep  the  Nymphs,  and  Dryads  weep  with  fears 

For  Venus  now ;  her  lost  Adonis  bleeds ; 

While  spring  and  mountain-hunting  Nymphs  lament ; 

Through  springs  and  mountains  is  a  sighing  sent.1 

There  is  no  dearth  of  poets  in  these  two  hundred 
years  of  decadence,  but  scarcely  one  rises  above 
mediocrity,  and  however  famous  in  their  own  day, 
they  are  now  forgotten.  Among  the  more  promi- 
nent names,  after  Marini,  we  may  mention  that  of 
Gabriello  Chiabrera  (1559-1637),  who  deserves 
some  praise  in  that  he  opposed  the  extravagances  of 

1  From  Sismondi's  Literature  of  the  South  of  Europe,  translated 
by  Thomas  lioscoe. 

257 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

the  school  of  Marini,  and  improved  Italian  poetry 
by  means  of  Greek  and  Latin  models.  Henceforth 
a  new  style  of  lyric  poetry  ruled  in  Italy,  —  the  aca- 
demic or  classic.  Fulvio  Testi  (1593-1646),  born 
in  Ferrara,  passed  his  short  life  in  the  service  of 
the  House  of  Este,  and,  being  accused  of  secret 
correspondence  with  the  French,  was  arrested  and 
cast  into  prison,  where  he  died  in  1646.  His  best- 
known  poem  is  the  "  Lament  of  Italy,"  in  which  he 
bewails  the  wretched  state  of  his  native  land.  An- 
other well-known  name  is  that  of  Vincenzo  Filicaja 
(1642-1707),  whom  Macaulay  considered  the 
greatest  lyrical  poet  of  his  age.  His  sonnet  on  the 
slavish  condition  of  Italy  as  paraphrased  by  Byron 
in  "  Childe  Harold  "  has  become  widely  known  to 
English  readers. 

Italia !  oh  Italia !  thou  who  hast 

The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  which  became 

A  funeral  dower  of  present  woes  and  past, 

On  thy  sweet  brow  is  sorrow  plough'd  by  shame, 

And  annals  graved  in  characters  of  flame. 

Oh,  God !   that  thou  wert  in  thy  nakedness 

Less  lovely  or  more  powerful,  and  couldst  claim 

Thy  right,  and  awe  the  robbers  back,  who  press 

To  shed  thy  blood,  and  drink  the  tears  of  thy  distress ; 

Then  might'st  thou  more  appal,  or  less  desired, 
Be  homely  and  be  peaceful,  undeplored 

258 


THE  DECADENCE  AND  KEVIVAL 

For  thy  destructive  charms ;  then,  still  uutired, 

Would  not  be  seen  the  armed  torrents  pour'd 

Down  the  steep  Alps ;  nor  would  the  hostile  horde 

Of  many-nation'd  spoilers  from  the  Po 

Quaff  blood  and  water ;  nor  the  stranger's  sword 

Be  thy  sad  weapon  of  defence,  and  so 

Victor  or  vanquished,  thou  the  slave  of  friend  or  foe. 

In  1748,  the  Treaty  of  Aix-la-Chapelle  ended 
Spanish  rule  in  Italy,  and  the  breath  of  free  thought 
from  England  sweeping  across  the  plains  of  France 
entered  Italy  and  gradually  weakened  the  power 
of  the  Jesuits,  dissipated  to  a  certain  extent  super- 
stition and  ignorance,  and  aroused  the  country  to 
a  sense  of  its  degradation.  By  bringing  Italy  into 
connection  with  other  nations,  and  with  newer 
ideals,  it  planted  the  germs  of  a  new  intellectual 
life.  The  influence  of  France,  England,  and  Ger- 
many began  to  make  itself  felt.  Corneille,  Racine, 
and  Voltaire  influenced  Italian  tragedy,  while  Mo- 
liere,  who  himself  had  borrowed  largely  from  the 
early  Italian  comedies,  now  returned  the  favor  by 
becoming  the  master  of  Goldoni.  English  influ- 
ence came  later,  first  Addison,  Pope,  and  Milton, 
then  toward  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
Young,  Gray,  Shakespeare,  and  Ossian.  Last  of  all 
came  the  German  influence,  especially  that  of 
Klopstock  and  Goethe. 

i>59 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

One  of  the  first  and  greatest  of  the  poets  to  show 
the  new  spirit  of  independence  that  breathed  ovei 
all  Europe  at  this  time  both  in  the  world  of  politics 
and  of  literature  was  Giuseppe  Parini  (1729- 
1799),  who,  while  an  original  thinker  and  poet,  yet 
shows  plainly  the  influence  of  the  English  writers 
of  the  period.  He  was  a  man  of  admirable  char- 
acter, gentle  in  disposition,  quiet  and  dignified  in 
manners,  and  full  of  sorrow  at  the  wretched  state  of 
his  beloved  country.  He  received  a  good  education, 
and  having  passed  a  number  of  years  as  tutor  in  the 
house  of  several  members  of  the  upper  nobility,  he 
used  his  opportunities  there  to  observe  carefully  the 
corrupt  and  effeminate  customs  of  the  aristocratic 
youth  of  the  day,  and  published  his  observations 
in  the  form  of  a  satire,  entitled  "  II  Giorno  "  (The 
Day),  a  poem  which  at  once  became  famous.  In 
this  poem,  which  belongs  to  the  same  general  class 
as  the  "  Lutrin  "  of  Boileau  and  the  "  Rape  of  the 
Lock"  of  Pope,  the  poet  pretends  to  be  the  preceptor 
of  a  young  man  in  all  matters  pertaining  to  elegant 
society,  and  undertakes  to  teach  him  the  customs 
and  duties  necessary  to  one  who  wishes  to  obtain 
the  name  of  perfect  "  cavalier."  With  happy  satire 
he  held  up  to  ridicule  the  conduct,  manners,  and 
conversation  of  the  noble  classes,  and  rebuked  their 
260 


THE   DECADENCE   AND   REVIVAL 

idleness,  pride,  extravagance,  and  vice,  thus  laying 
the  foundations  of  that  branch  of  patriotic  literature 
which  sought  to  prepare  the  Italian  people  for  the 
task  of  unifying  the  fatherland  by  the  cultivation 
of  character. 

In  this  period  of  awakening,  however,  the  chief 
gain  was  in  the  field  of  the  drama.  Up  to  the  mid- 
dle of  the  eighteenth  century,  Italy,  in  this  branch 
of  literature,  could  not  even  remotely  be  compared 
with  France,  Spain,  or  England.  In  the  sixteenth 
century  comedies  had  not  been  wanting,  and  beside 
the  purely  Italian  creation  of  improvised  farce  (now 
represented  in  Punch  and  Judy  shows,  pantomimes, 
and  harlequinades),  Ariosto  had  written  literary 
comedies  in  close  imitation  of  Plautus  and  Terence. 
Yet  from  Ariosto  to  Goldoni  we  find  practically 
but  one  genuine  writer  of  comedy.  This,  singularly 
enough,  was  Machiavelli,  whose  "  Mandragora  "  en- 
joyed immense  popularity,  and  was  declared  by 
Voltaire  to  be  better  than  the  comedies  of  Aristo- 
phanes and  but  little  inferior  to  those  of  Moliere. 
It  was  left  for  Carlo  Goldoni  (1707-1793),  then, 
to  give  his  country  a  number  of  comedies  worthy  of 
being  compared  with  those  of  Moliere. 

Goldoni  was  a  kindly,  amiable  man  of  the  world 
as  well  as  of  letters,  bright  and  witty  but  withal 
261 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

somewhat  superficial.  Although  a  keen  observer  of 
the  outer  form  of  society  and  of  human  nature,  he 
lacked  the  depth  and  insight,  and  especially  the 
subtle  pathos  of  Moliere.  He  was  greatly  influenced 
by  the  latter,  whom  he  looked  upon  as  his  master. 
Like  him  he  began  with  light  comedy,  farcical  in 
nature,  and  gradually  produced  more  and  more 
comedies  of  manner  and  of  character.  Yet  he  is  not 
a  slavish  imitator  of  the  great  Frenchman,  to  whom, 
while  inferior  in  earnestness  and  knowledge  of  the 
human  heart,  he  was  equal  in  dialogue,  in  develop- 
ment of  plot,  and  in  comic  talent.  Goldoni  composed 
rapidly  (once  he  wrote  sixteen  comedies  in  a  year), 
and  has  left  behind  him  one  hundred  and  sixty 
plays  and  eighty  musical  dramas  and  opera  texts. 

The  musical  drama  is  a  peculiarly  Italian  inven- 
tion, and  almost  immediately  reached  perfection  in 
Pietro  Metastasio  (1698-1782),  after  whom  it 
began  rapidly  to  decline.  Metastasio  was  univer- 
sally admired,  and  was,  before  Goldoni  and  Alfieri, 
the  only  Italian  who  had  a  European  reputation, 
and  who  thus  won  some  measure  of  glory  for  his 
country  in  her  period  of  deepest  degradation. 
His  plays,  meant  to  be  set  to  music  (the  modern 
opera  text  is  a  debased  form  of  this),  were  super- 
ficial, had  no  real  delineation  of  character,  yet 
262 


THE  DECADENCE  AND   KEVTVAL 

were  written  in  verses  which  flowed  softly  along 
like  a  clear  stream  through  flowery  meads.  Light, 
artificial  in  sentiment,  often  lax  in  morals,  yet  ex- 
pressing the  courtly  conventionalities  of  the  times, 
Metastasio's  poetry  enjoyed  vast  popularity,  while 
he  himself  became  the  favorite  of  the  aristocratic 
society  of  Vienna  (where  he  lived  for  fifty  years), 
and  the  pride  and  glory  of  Italy.  After  him 
music  became  the  all-important  element  in  this 
peculiar  form  of  drama,  which  thus  developed  into 
the  modern  opera. 

More  famous,  perhaps,  than  either  of  the  above 
was  Alfieri,  the  founder  of  modern  Italian  tragedy. 
In  the  intellectual  movement  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, tragedy,  like  comedy,  had  not  been  neglected, 
and  many  translations  and  imitations  had  been  made 
from  the  Greek  and  Latin  dramatists.  The  first 
regular  tragedy,  not  only  of  Italian  but  of  mod- 
ern European  literature,  was  the  "  Sofonisba  "  of 
Trissino,  which  became  the  model  of  all  succeed- 
ing writers.  Published  first  in  1524,  it  was  soon 
translated  into  all  European  languages  and  imitated, 
among  many  others,  by  Corneille  and  Voltaire  in 
France,  Alfieri  in  Italy,  and  Geibel  in  Germany. 
In  spite  of  this  promising  beginning,  however, 
Italian  tragedy  did  not  develop  as  that  of  the 
263 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

neighboring  countries  did.  Among  the  numberless 
writers  of  tragedy  in  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries  scarcely  one  deserves  mention.  In  the 
early  part  of  the  eighteenth  century  one  name 
became  famous,  Scipio  Maffei  (1675-1755 ;  the 
immediate  predecessor  of  Alfieri),  whose  "Merope" 
was  vastly  popular  throughout  all  Europe. 

Yet  Italy  could  not  boast  of  a  truly  national 
drama  before  the  appearance  of  Vittorio  Alfieri 
(1749-1803),  who  gave  her  an  honorable  rank  in 
this  department  of  the  world's  literature.  The 
story  of  his  life,  as  told  by  himself  in  his  autobio- 
graphy, is  exceedingly  interesting.  Born  in  Asti, 
near  Turin,  of  a  noble  family,  after  a  youth  spent 
in  idleness,  ignorance,  and  selfish  pleasure,  at  the 
age  of  twenty-six  he  "  found  himself,"  and  being 
fired  with  ambition  to  become  a  poet,  began  a  long 
period  of  self-education.  He  made  especial  efforts 
to  master  the  Italian  language,  which  he,  born  in 
Piedmont,  and  long  absent  abroad,  only  half  un- 
derstood. The  rest  of  his  life  was  spent  in  this 
study  and  in  the  writing  of  his  dramas. 

In  his  reform  of  the  Italian  drama,  Alfieri  did 
not,  like  Manzoni  later,  try  to  introduce  Shake- 
spearean methods.  He  went  back  to  the  tragic  sys- 
tem of  the  Greeks,  and  tried  to  improve  on  the 
264 


ALFIERI 


THE   DECADENCE   AND  REVIVAL 

French  followers  of  the  latter.  He  observed  the 
three  unities,  especially  that  of  action,  even  more 
strictly  than  Corneille  or  even  Racine. 

Alfieri  undoubtedly  drew  his  literary  doctrines 
from  the  great  French  dramatists,  although  he  in- 
dignantly denies  any  close  imitation  of  them.  His 
language  is  far  different  from  the  courtly,  refined, 
and  artificial  diction  of  Corneille  and  Racine.  It 
is  extraordinarily  brief  and  sententious,  often  harsh 
in  its  broken  exclamations,  and  in  its  complete  re- 
nunciation of  the  graces  and  flowers  of  poetry. 

The  most  striking  innovation  made  by  Alfieri 
was  the  reduction  of  tragedy  to  its  ultimate  limits 
of  brevity,  only  one  of  his  plays  containing  more 
than  fifteen  hundred  lines.  He  purposely  cut  off 
the  confidants  of  the  French  drama,  with  their  use- 
less repetitions;  he  reduced  the  plot  to  one  brief 
and  definite  action,  which  advanced  from  begin- 
ning to  end  in  a  straight  line.  There  is  no  devi- 
ation from  this  line  ;  the  characters  are  for  the 
most  part  helplessly  entangled  in  the  toils  of  a  re- 
lentless fate,  and  are  carried  along  to  an  inevitable 
destruction.  The  atmosphere  is  dark  and  sombre, 
utterly  unrelieved  by  that  tender  sympathy,  —  the 
pity  of  it  all,  —  which  softens  the  tragic  effect  of 
Shakespeare's  plays.  Horror  is  the  keynote  of  all 
265 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

these  dramas ;  unnatural  love,  jealousy  between 
father  and  son,  fratricidal  hatred,  or  devotion  to  the 
sacred  cause  of  liberty  triumphing  over  the  ties  of 
filial  and  parental  love, —  these  are  the  themes 
of  Alfieri's  tragedies.  Death,  murder,  suicide,  is 
the  outcome  of  every  one. 

The  actors  are  few,  in  many  plays  only  four, 
and  each  represents  a  certain  passion.  They  never 
change,  but  remain  true  each  to  his  own  character 
throughout  the  whole  play.  The  villains  are  mon- 
sters of  cruelty  and  vice,  and  the  innocent  and 
virtuous  are  invariably  their  victims  and  succumb 
to  them  at  last. 

Alfieri's  purpose  in  producing  these  plays  was 
not  to  amuse  an  idle  public,  but  to  promulgate 
those  great  principles  of  liberty  which  inspired  his 
own  life.  A  deep,  uncompromising  hatred  of  kings 
is  seen  in  each  of  his  plays.  There  is  constant 
declamation  against  tyranny  and  slavery.  Freedom 
is  portrayed  as  something  dearer  than  life  itself.1 
Alfieri  was  the  first  to  speak  of  a  fatherland,  a 
united  Italy ;  he  practically  founded  the  patriotic 
school  of  literature  which  has  lasted  down  to  the 
present  time.  Hence  he  is  even  more  important 

1  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  Alfieri  dedicated  one  of  his  plays 
to  George  Washington. 

266 


THE   DECADENCE  AND   REVIVAL 

from  a  political  standpoint  than  from  a  literary 
one.  He  himself  looked  on  his  tragedies  as  a  means 
of  inspiring  new  and  higher  political  ideas  in  his 
fellow  countrymen,  degraded  as  they  had  been  by 
the  long  oppression  of  Spain.  "  I  wrote,"  he  says, 
"  because  the  sad  conditions  of  the  times  did  not 
allow  me  to  act." 

In  his  twenty-two  plays,  there  is  a  surprising 
uniformity  of  excellence,  and  it  is  hard  to  single 
out  any  one  preeminent.  "  Saul,"  "  Agamemnon," 
"  Orestes,"  and  "  Philip  II."  however,  may  be  re- 
garded as  affording  the  best  illustrations  of  his 
tragic  power. 

We  select  for  quotation  the  last  play,  not  only  be- 
cause of  its  intrinsic  merit,  but  because  the  theme, 
which  has  been  treated  by  Schiller  in  his  "Don 
Carlos,"  is  modern  and  hence  of  more  interest  to 
the  general  reader  than  the  classic  and  Biblical 
subjects  of  most  of  Alfieri's  plays. 

The  subject  of  Philip  II.  was  peculiarly  well  fitted 
to  Alfieri's  sombre  genius.  The  character  of  the 
king,  despotic,  heartless,  full  of  jealous  suspicion, 
a  veritable  Tiberius  of  modern  times,  is  admirably 
drawn,  while  the  nobler  characters  of  Don  Carlos 
and  Isabella  stand  out  in  sharp  contrast  against  the 
gloomy  personage  of  Philip. 
267 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

The  story  of  the  plot  is  well  known.  Don  Carlos, 
the  son  of  Philip  II.,  is  to  marry  Isabella,  princess 
of  France,  but  for  political  reasons  Philip  breaks 
off  the  marriage  and  marries  her  himself.  The 
result  is  inevitable.  The  two  young  people  cannot 
forget  their  love  at  the  command  of  the  king.  In 
the  first  scene  Isabella,  lamenting  her  hapless  lot, 
confesses  her  inability  to  banish  the  image  of 
Carlos  from  her  heart. 

Isa.  Love,  apprehension,  and  each  wicked  hope, 
Leave  ye  my  breast !  I,  Philip's  faithless  wife, 
Dare  I  behold  with  fondness  Philip's  son  ? 
Yet  who  beholds  that  son,  and  loves  him  not  ? 
A  heart,  though  bold,  humane  ;  a  lofty  nature  ; 
An  intellect  sublime ;  and,  in  a  form 
Most  fair,  a  soul  of  correspondent  worth. 
Ah,  why  did  Heav'n  and  Nature  make  thee  such  ? 
Alas  !  why  rave  I  thus  ?   Do  I  intend, 
By  meditating  thus  on  his  perfections, 
To  tear  his  image  from  the  deep  recesses 
Of  my  adoring  heart  ?   0,  if  a  flame 
So  fatal  in  its  consequences,  were 
By  living  man  discover'd  !    O,  if  he 
Suspected  it !   He  sees  me  ever  sad  .  .  . 
T  is  true,  most  sad ;  yet  evermore  avoiding 
The  fascination  of  his  thrilling  presence. 
And  from  Spain's  austere  palace  well  he  knows 
All  joy  is  banish 'd.   Who  can  read  my  heart  ? 
O  that  with  other  mortals  I  could  vie 
In  ignorance  !  that  I  could  shun  myself, 
268 


THE   DECADENCE  AND  REVIVAL 

And  thus  deceive  myself,  as  I  can  others !  .  .  . 
Unhappy  I !   My  only  solace  left 
Are  tears ;  and  mine,  alas,  are  tears  of  guilt.  — 
But,  that  with  less  of  risk  I  may  indulge 
My  wretchedness,  to  some  interior  chamber 
Let  me  retire  in  time  .  .  .  Ah,  who  is  this  ? 
Carlos  ?   Ah,  let  me  fly !    My  ev'ry  look, 
My  ev'ry  word,  might  now  betray  me.    Hence 
With  speed ! 

Carlos  appears,  and  in  a  long  dialogue,  the 
secret  feelings  of  the  two  unhappy  lovers  are 
revealed  in  spite  of  Isabella's  efforts  to  the  con- 
trary. The  germs  of  jealous  suspicion  already  exist 
in  Philip.  He  orders  his  willing  and  unscrupulous 
tool,  Gomez,  to  watch  the  queen's  countenance, 
while  he  questions  her  as  to  her  affection  for  her 
stepson,  and,  later,  while  he  accuses  Carlos  of 
treason  in  her  presence.  Gomez  is  only  too  ready 
to  see  evidence  of  guilt  in  the  queen's  behavior,  and 
fans  the  fire  of  jealousy  which  is  smoldering  in  the 
king's  heart.  The  short  scene  after  the  conversa- 
tion between  Philip,  Isabella,  and  Carlos,  with  its 
laconic  questions  and  answers,  is  very  characteristic 
of  Alfieri. 

Phi.    Didst  hear? 
(.:<>m.  I  heard. 

PAi.  Didst  see  ? 

(Join.  I  saw. 

269 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Phi.  O  rage ! 

Suspicion,  then  .  .  . 

(linn.  la  certainty. 

Phi.  Is  Philip 

Still  unavenged  ? 

GOTO.  Think  .  .  . 

Phi.  I  have  thought.  —  Now  follow. 

From  now  on  we  know  that  the  fate  of  the  two  in- 
nocent but  unfortunate  lovers  is  sealed.  No  human 
agency  can  avert  the  catastrophe.  The  jealousy  of 
Philip  is  as  implacable  and  inevitable  as  that 
of  Othello,  and  Alfieri  has  succeeded  almost  as 
effectively  as  Shakespeare  in  awakening  in  the 
spectators  those  feelings  of  pity  and  terror  which 
according  to  Aristotle  it  is  the  chief  function  of 
tragedy  to  produce.  A  council  of  state  is  held  in 
which  Carlos  is  not  only  accused  of  heresy  and 
of  entering  into  treasonable  correspondence  with 
the  enemies  of  Spain,  but  is  also  accused  by  Philip 
himself  of  attempted  parricide. 

Phi.     By  an  ungrateful  son  my  peace  is  ruin'd  ; 
That  peace,  which  each  of  you,  more  blest  than  I, 
Feels  in  the  bosom  of  his  family. 
In  vain  have  I  adopted  tow'rds  my  son 
Rigor,  with  mildness  temper'd  ;  vainly  tried 
By  warm  reproof  to  spur  him  on  to  virtue  : 
To  prayers  and  to  example  deaf  alike, 
And  still  more  deaf  to  menaces,  he  adda 
270 


THE   DECADENCE  AND   REVIVAL 

One  trespass  to  another ;  and  to  these 
Impious  presumption.     So  that,  at  their  height, 
This  day  has  fill'd  the  measure  of  his  crimes. 
Yes,  though  I  gave  to  him  this  day  new  proofs 
Of  indiscreet  affection,  he  selects 
This  very  day  to  give  his  father's  heart 
The  last  proofs  of  unheard-of  wickedness.  — 
Scarce  had  the  glowing  orb  that  rules  the  day, 
The  shining  witness  of  my  daily  actions, 
Retired  to  cheer  my  transatlantic  realms, 
Than  with  the  shades  of  night,  to  traitors  friendly, 
A  project  horrible  and  black  arose 
Within  the  heart  of  Carlos.     Silently, 
Vengeance  to  take  for  his  forgiven  crimes, 
He  steals  with  mnrd'rous  footsteps  to  my  chamber. 
His  right  hand  with  a  parricidal  sword 
He  dared  to  arm  :  approach' d  me  unawares; 
The  weapon  lifts ;  and  is  about  to  plunge  it 
Into  my  undefended  aide  .  .  .  when,  lo ! 
All  unexpectedly,  a  voice  exclaims  : 
"  Philip,  be  on  thy  guard  !  "     It  was  Rodrigo, 
Who  came  to  me.     At  the  same  time  I  feel 
The  stroke,  as  of  a  lightly  grazing  sword 
Defeated  of  its  aim.     My  eager  eyes 
Glance  through  the  obscure  distance.     At  my  feet 
A  naked  sword  I  see  ;  and  in  swift  flight 
Remote,  amid  the  night's  uncertain  shadows, 
Behold  my  son.     I  now  have  told  you  all. 
If  there  be  those  among  my  friends  convened, 
Who  can  accuse  him  of  another  fault ; 
If  there  be  those  who  can  of  this  fault  clear  him, 
Speak  without  hesitation  :  and  may  Heaven 
Inspire  his  words !     This  is  a  fearful  matter ; 
My  councillors,  deliberately  weigh  it. 
271 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

The  action  now  hastens  to  its  close.  Carlos  is 
thrown  into  prison.  The  false-hearted  Gomez  seeks 
the  queen,  feigns  to  be  horror-struck  at  the  king's 
unnatural  hatred  of  his  son,  and  offers  to  help  Isa- 
bella to  secure  the  escape  of  Don  Carlos.  She 
trusts  him,  visits  Carlos  in  his  prison,  —  is  there 
surprised  by  the  king,  and,  together  with  Carlos, 
dies,  the  victim  of  the  insane  jealousy  of  the  gloomy 
tyrant. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  L 


Car.    What  have  I  now  to  hope,  -what  fear,  but  death  ? 
Would  I  might  have  it  free  from  infamy !  .  .  . 
From  cruel  Philip,  I,  alas  shall  have  it 
Replete  with  infamy.  —  One  doubt  alone, 
Far  worse  than  any  death,  afflicts  my  heart. 
Perchance  he  knows  my  love  :  Erewhile  I  saw, 
In  the  fierce  glances  of  his  countenance, 
I  know  not  what  of  bitterness,  that  seeni'd, 
Spite  of  himself,  his  meaning  to  betray  .  .  . 
His  conversation  with  the  queen  erewhile.  .  . 
My  summons ;  his  observing  me  .  .  .  What  would  .  .  . 
(0  Heav'ns ! )  what  would  her  fate  be,  should  his  wife 
Excite  the  wrath  of  his  suspicious  nature  ? 
Perchance  e'en  now  the  cruel  tyrant  wreaks 
Vengeance  on  her  for  an  uncertain  fault ; 
Vengeance  that  always,  when  a  tyrant  rules, 
Precedes  the  crime  itself  .  .  .  But,  if  to  all, 
272 


THE   DECADENCE  AND   REVIVAL 

And  almost  to  ourselves,  our  love  's  unknown, 

Whence  should  he  learn  it  ?  ...  Have  my  sighs,  perchance, 

Betray'd  my  meaning  ?     What  ?     Shall  love's  soft  sighs 

Be  by  a  guilty  tyrant  understood  ?  .  .  . 

To  make  him  furious  and  unnatural, 

Could  it  be  needful  to  a  sire  like  this 

To  penetrate  my  love  ?     His  vengeful  hate 

Had  reach'd  its  height,  and  could  not  brook  delay. 

The  day  at  length  is  come,  the  day  is  come 

When  I  may  satisfy  his  thirst  for  blood.  — 

Ah !  treach'rous  troops  of  friends  that  crowded  round  me 

In  my  prosperity  !  where  are  ye  now  ? 

I  only  ask  of  you  a  sword  ;  a  sword, 

By  means  of  which  to  'scape  from  infamy, 

Not  one  of  you  will  bring  me  .  .  .  whence  that  noise  ?  .  .  . 

The  iron  gate  grates  on  its  hinges !     Ah  ! 

What  next  may  I  expect  ?  .  .  .  Who  comes  there  ?    Ho ! 

SCENE  II. 

ISABELLA,   CARLOS. 

Car.     Queen,  is  it  thou  ?     Who  was  thy  guide  ?     What  cause 
Hither  conducted  thee  ?     Love,  duty,  pity  ? 
How  didst  thou  gain  admission  ? 

Jsa.  Wretched  prince, 

Thou  know'st  not  yet  the  horrors  of  thy  fate  : 
Thou  as  a  parricide  art  stigmatized  : 
Thy  sire  himself  accuses  thee  :  to  death 
A  mercenary  council  hath  condemn'd  thee ; 
Nothing  is  wanting  to  complete  the  sentence 
But  the  assent  of  Philip. 

Car.  If  that's  all, 

That  soon  will  follow. 

273 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Isa.  Art  thou  not  o'erwhelm'd  ? 

Car.     'T  is  long  since  nought  bnt  death  has  been  my  choice : 
Thou  know'st  it  well,  of  whom  I  nothing  ask'd, 
But  leave  to  breathe  my  last  where  thou  dost  dwell. 
'T  is  hard,  yes,  hard,  the  horrible  aspersion ; 
Not  unexpected.     I  'm  compelled  to  die : 
And  can  I  shudder  if  thou  bring  the  tidings  ? 

Isa.     Ah !  if  thou  love  me,  do  not  talk  of  death. 
Yield,  for  a  short  time,  to  the  pressing  need  .  .  . 

Car.    Yield  ?  now  I  see  that  thou  hast  undertaken 
The  cruel  office  to  degrade  my  nature. 
My  vengeful  father  hath  deputed  thee  .  .  . 

Isa.     And  canst  thou  think  it,  prince,  that  I  am  then 
The  minister  of  Philip's  cruelty  ?  .  .  . 

Car.     He  may  to  this  constrain  thee,  p'rhaps  deceive  thee. 
But  wherefore,  then,  has  he  permitted  thee 
To  see  me  in  this  dungeon  ? 

Isa.  Thinkest  thou 

That  Philip  knows  it  ?     That  indeed  were  death  !  .  .  . 

Car.    What  say'st    thou  ?     Nothing  can    escape    his    know- 
ledge. 
Who  dares  to  violate  his  fierce  commands  ?  .  .  . 

Isa.    Gomez. 

Car.  Alas !  what  is  it  that  I  hear  ? 

What  an  abominable,  fatal  name 
Hast  thou  pronounced  !  .  .  . 

Jsa.  He  's  not  thy  enemy, 

As  thou  dost  think  .  .  . 

Car.  O  Heav'ns,  if  I  believed 

He  were  my  friend,  my  countenance  would  burn 
With  shame,  more  than  with  anger. 

Jsa.  He  alone 

Feels  pity  for  thy  fate.     To  me  confess'd  he 
Philip's  atrocious  plot. 

274 


THE  DECADENCE  AND   REVIVAL 

Car.  Incautious  queen ! 

Thou  art  too  credulous  !  what  hast  thou  done  ? 
Why  didst  thou  trust  to  auch  a  f  eign'd  compassion  ? 
Of  the  base  king  the  basest  minister, 
If  he  spoke  truth,  't  was  with  the  truth  to  cheat  thee. 

Isa.     What  could  it  profit  him  ?    Of  his  compassion 
Undoubted  proofs  I  quickly  can  display, 
If  thou  wilt  yield  to  my  entreaties.     He 
By  stealth  conducted  me  to  this  recess  ; 
Prepares  the  means  of  thy  escape  :  't  was  I 
That  influenced  him.     No  longer  tarry ;  fly ! 
Fly  from  thy  father,  fly  from  death  and  me  ! 

Car.    While  thou  hast  time,  ah,  hasten  from  my  presence; 
Gomez  no  pity  f  eign'd  without  good  reason. 
Into  what  snare  thou  'rt  fallen !     Now,  O  queen, 
Indeed  I  shudder !     Now,  what  doubt  remains  ? 
The  secret  of  our  love  is  fully  known 
By  Philip  now  .  .  . 

Isa.  Ah,  no  !     Not  long  ago 

Philip  I  saw,  when,  from  his  presence,  thou 
By  dint  of  force  wert  dragg'd  :  he  burn'd  with  rage  : 
Trembling  I  listen'd  to  him,  not  exempt 
From  fears  like  thine.     But  when  in  solitude 
His  converse  I  recall'd,  I  felt  secure, 
That,  rather  than  of  this,  his  fury  tax'd  thee 
With  ev'ry  other  crime  ...  I  now  remember, 
He  charged  thee  with  intriguing  'gainst  my  life, 
As  well  as  'gainst  his  own. 

Car.  'T  would  be  a  toil 

That  made  me  vile  as  he  ;  yea,  e'en  more  vile, 
The  dark  perplexities  to  penetrate 
Of  guilt's  inextricable  labyrinth ; 
But,  sure  I  am,  that  this  thy  embassy 
Conceals  some  bad  design  :  that  which  till  now 
275 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

He  but  suspected,  he  would  now  make  clear. 
But,  be  it  what  it  may,  depart  at  once 
From  this  disastrous  place.     Thy  hope  is  -vain, 
Vain  thy  belief  that  Gomez  wills  to  serve  me, 
Or,  if  he  will'd  it,  that  I  should  consent. 

Isa.    And  must  I,  then,  drag  on  my  wretched  days 
Midst  beings  such  as  these  ? 

Car.  'T  is  too,  too  true  !  — 

Delay  not  now  a  moment :  leave  me ;  save  me 
From  agonies  insufferably  keen  .  .  . 
Thy  pity  wounds,  if  for  thyself  it  feels  not. 
Go,  if  thou  hold  life  dear  .  .  . 

Isa.  Life  dear  to  me  ?  .  .  . 

Car.     My  honour,  then,  remember,  and  thy  fame. 

Isa.     And  in  such  danger  must  I  quit  thee  thus  ? 

Car.     Ah,  what  avails  it  to  expose  thyself  ? 
Thyself  thou  ruinest,  and  sav'st  not  me. 
Virtue  is  spotted  even  by  suspicion. 
Ah  !  from  the  tyrant  snatch  the  hellish  joy 
Of  casting  imputation  on  thy  name. 
Go  :  dry  thy  tears ;  and  still  thy  heaving  bosom. 
With  a  dry  eye,  and  an  intrepid  brow, 
Hear  of  my  death.     To  virtue's  cause  devote 
The  mournful  days  in  which  thou  shalt  outlive  me  .  .  . 
And  if  among  so  many  guilty  creatures 
Thou  seekest  consolation,  one  remains  : 
Perez,  thou  know'st  him  well,  clandestinely 
Will  weep  with  thee  ;  —  To  him  sometimes  speak  of  me  .  • 
But  go  —  depart ;  .  .  .  Ah,  tempt  me  not  to  weep  .  .  . 
Little  by  little  rend  not  thus  my  heart ! 
Take  now  thy  last  farewell,  .  .  .  and  leave  me  ;  .  .  .  go ! 
I  've  need  to  summon  all  my  fortitude, 
Now  that  the  fatal  hour  of  death  approaches  .  .  . 


276 


THE   DECADENCE   AND   REVIVAL 


SCENE  III. 

PHILIP,   ISABKLLA,   CARLOS. 

Phi.     Perfidious  one,  that  hour  of  death  is  come  : 
I  bring  it  to  thee. 

Isa.  Are  we  thus  betray'd  ?  .  .  . 

Car.     I  am  prepared  for  death.     Give  it  at  once. 

Phi.    Wretch,  thou  shalt  die  :  but  first,  ye  impious  pair, 
My  fulminating  accents  hear,  and  tremble.  — 
Ye  vile  ones  !  long,  yes,  long,  I  Ve  known  it  all. 
That  horrid  flame  that  burns  in  you  with  love, 
In  me  with  fury,  long  has  fix'd  its  torment, 
And  long  been  all  disco ver'd.    O  what  pangs 
Of  rage  repress'd !     O  what  resentment  smother'd !  .  . . 
At  last  ye  both  are  fallen  in  my  power. 
Should  I  lament  ?  or  utter  vain  regrets  ? 
I  vow'd  revenge  ;  and  I  will  have  it  soon  ; 
Revenge  full,  unexampled.  —  On  your  shame 
Meanwhile  I  feast  my  eyes.     Flagitious  woman, 
Think  not  I  ever  bore  thee  any  love, 
Nor  that  a  jealous  thought  within  my  heart 
E'er  woke  a  pang.     Philip  could  never  deign 
On  a  degraded  bosom,  such  as  thine, 
To  fix  the  love  of  his  exalted  nature  ; 
Nor  could  a  woman  who  deserved  betray  it. 
Thou  hast  in  me  thy  king  offended,  then, 
And  not  thy  lover.     Thou,  unworthily, 
Hast  now  my  consort's  name,  that  sacred  name, 
Basely  contaminated.     I  ne'er  prized 
Thy  love  ;  but  such  inviolable  duty 
Thou  should'st  have  felt  towards  thy  lord  and  king, 
As  should  have  made  thee  e'en  at  a  frail  thought 
Shudder  with  horror.  —  Thou,  seducer  vile ;  .  .  . 
277 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

To  thee  I  speak  not.     Guilt  becomes  thy  nature : 
The  deed  was  worthy  of  its  impious  author.  — 
Undoubted  proofs  to  me  (too  much  so !)  were, 
Although  conceal' d,  your  guilty  sighs,  your  silence, 
Your  gestures,  and  the  sorrow  which  I  saw, 
And  still  can  see,  your  wicked  bosoms  filling 
With  equal  force.  —  Now,  what  more  shall  I  say  ? 
Equal  in  crime,  your  torments  shall  be  equal. 

Car.    What  do  I  hear  ?    In  her  there  is  no  fault : 
No  fault  ?  not  e'en  the  shadow  of  a  fault ! 
Pure  is  her  heart  ;  with  such  flagitious  flame 
It  never  burn'd,  I  swear  :  she  scarcely  knew 
My  love  ;  the  trespass  then  .  .  . 

Phi.  To  what  extent 

Ye,  each  of  yon,  are  criminal,  I  know ; 
I  know  that  to  thy  father's  bed,  as  yet, 
Thou  hast  not  raised  thy  bold  and  impious  thoughts. 
Had  it  been  otherwise,  would'st  thon  now  live  ?  .  .  . 
But  from  thy  impure  mouth  there  issued  accents, 
Flagitious  accents,  of  a  dreadful  love  ; 
She  heard  them ;  that  suffices. 

Car.  I  alone 

Offended  thee  ;  I  seek  not  to  conceal  it : 
A  rapid  flash  of  hope  athwart  my  sight 
Shot :  but  her  virtue  instantly  dispell'd  it; 
She  heard  me,  but  't  was  only  to  my  shame ; 
Only  to  root  entirely  from  my  bosom 
The  passion  illegitimate  it  foster'd  .  .  . 
Yes,  now,  alas !  too  illegitimate  .  .  . 
Yet  it  was  once  a  lawful,  noble  passion : 
She  was  my  spouse  betroth'd  —  my  spouse,  thou  know'st  J 
Thou  gav'st  her  to  me ;  and  the  gift  was  lawful, 
But 't  was  not  lawful  in  thee  to  resume  it  ... 
Yes,  I  am  criminal  in  ev'ry  shape  : 
278 


THE   DECADENCE  AND  REVIVAL 

I  love  her ;  thon  hast  made  that  love  a  crime  ;  .  .  . 
What  canst  thou  now  take  from  me  ?    In  my  blood 
Satiate  thy  wrath  ;  and  gratify  in  me 
The  bitter  madness  of  thy  jealous  pride ; 
Spare  her ;  for  she  is  wholly  innocent  .  .  . 

I'lii.    She  ?    Not  to  thee  in  guilt  she  yields,  but  boldness. 
Be  silent,  madam,  of  thine  own  accord, 
That  silence  doth  sufficiently  betray  thee : 
'T  is  useless  to  deny  it,  thou  dost  cherish 
A  passion  illegitimate.     Thou  show'dst  it, 
Enough,  too  much  didst  show  it,  when  I  spoke, 
With  artful  purposes,  of  him  to  thee  : 
Why,  then,  didst  thou  so  pertinaciously 
Remind  me  that  he  was  my  son  ?     O  traitress, 
Thon  didst  not  dare  to  say  he  was  thy  lover. 
And  hast  thou  less  than  he,  within  thy  heart, 
Betray'd  thy  duty,  honor,  and  the  laws  ? 

Isa.  .  .  .  My  silence  from  my  fear  doth  not  arise ; 
But  from  the  stupor  that  benumbs  my  senses, 
At  the  incredible  duplicity 
Of  thy  bloodthirsty,  rabid  heart.  —  At  length 
My  scatter'd  senses  I  once  more  recover  .  .  . 
'T  is  time,  't  is  time,  that  for  the  heinous  fault 
I  should  atone,  of  being  wife  to  thee.  — 
Till  now  I  've  not  offended  thee  :  till  now, 
In  God's  sight,  in  the  prince's,  1  am  guiltless. 
Although  within  my  breast  .  .  . 

Car.  Pity  for  me 

Inspires  her  words :  ah,  hear  her  not  .  .  . 

Isa.  In  rain 

Thon  seek'st  to  save  me.     Ev'ry  word  of  thine 
Is  as  a  puncture,  which  exasperates 
The  wounds  of  his  proud  breast.     The  time  is  past 
For  palliatives.     To  shun  his  hated  sight, 
279 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

The  torment  of  -whose  presence  nought  can  equal, 

Is  now  my  only  refuge.  —  Were  it  given 

To  one  that  is  a  tyrant  e'er  to  feel 

The  pow'r  of  love,  I  would  remind  thee,  king, 

That  thou  at  first  didst  form  our  mutual  ties : 

That  from  my  earliest  years,  my  fondest  thoughts, 

My  dearest  hopes  were  centred  all  in  him ; 

With  him  I  trusted  to  live  bless'd  and  blessing. 

To  love  him  then,  at  once,  in  me  was  virtue, 

And  to  thy  will  submission.     Who  hut  thou 

Made  what  was  virtue  guilt  ?    Thou  didst  the  deed. 

Ties  the  most  holy  thou  didst  burst  asunder,  — 

An  easy  task  to  one  that 's  absolute. 

But  does  the  heart  change  thus  ?     His  image  lay 

Deeply  engraven  there  :  but  instantly 

That  I  became  thy  wife,  the  flame  was  smother'd. 

And  I  depended  afterwards  on  time, 

And  on  my  virtue,  and,  perchance,  on  thee, 

Wholly  to  root  it  ont  .  .  . 

Phi.  I  will  then  now, 

What  neither  years,  nor  virtue  have  perform'd, 
Do  instantly  :  yes,  in  thy  faithless  blood 
I  '11  quench  the  impure  flame  ... 

Jsa.  Yes,  blood  to  spill, 

And,  when  that  blood  is  spilt,  to  spill  more  blood, 
Is  thy  most  choice  prerogative  :  but,  O ! 
Is  it  by  a  prerogative  like  this 
Thou  hopest  to  win  me  from  him  to  thee  ? 
To  thee,  as  utterly  unlike  thy  son, 
As  is,  to  virtue,  vice  ?  —  Thou  hast  been  wont 
To  see  me  tremble ;  but  I  fear  no  more ; 
As  yet,  my  wicked  passion,  for  as  such 
I  deein'd  my  passion,  I  have  kept  conceal'd  : 


280 


THE   DECADENCE   AND   REVIVAL 

Now  shall  it  be  without  disguise  proclaim'd, 

Since  thy  dark  crimes  have  made  it  seem  like  virtue. 

Phi.     He  's  worthy  of  thee  ;  thou  of  him  art  worthy. 
It  now  remains  to  prove,  if,  as  in  words, 
Ye  will  be  bold  in  death  .  .  . 


SCENE  IV. 

GOMEZ,   PHILIP,   ISABELLA,  CARLOS. 

Phi.  Hast  thou,  O  Gomez, 

All  my  commands  fulfill'd  ?    What  I  eujoiu'd  thee 
Dost  thou  now  bring  ? 

Gom.  Perez  has  breathed  his  last : 

Behold  the  sword,  that  with  his  smoking  blood 
Yet  reeks. 

Car.  O  sight ! 

Phi.  With  him  is  not  extinguish'd 

The  race  of  traitors  ...  Be  thou  witness  now 
How  I  take  vengeance  on  this  impious  pair. 

Car.     Before  I  die,  alas  !  how  many  deaths 
I  'm  destined  to  behold.     Thou,  Perez,  too  ?  ... 
O  infamy  !  now,  now  I  follow  thee. 
Where  is  the  sword  to  which  my  breast  is  fated  ? 
Quick,  bring  it  to  me.     May  my  blood  alone 
The  burning  thirst  of  this  fell  tiger  slake  ! 

Isa.     O  would  that  I  alone  could  satisfy 
His  murd'rous  appetite ! 

Phi.  Cease  your  vile  contest. 

This  dagger,  and  this  cup  await  your  choice. 
Thou,  proud  contemner  as  thou  art,  of  death, 
Choose  first. 

Car.  0  weapon  of  deliverance  I  ... 

281 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

With  guiltless  blood  yet  reeking,  thee  I  choose  I  — 

0  luckless  lady,  thon  hast  said  too  much  : 
For  thee  no  refuge  now  remains  but  death : 
But,  ah  !  the  poison  choose,  for  this  will  be 
Most  easy  ...  Of  my  inauspicious  love 
The  last  advice  is  this  :  collect  at  once 

All,  all  thy  fortitude  :  —  and  look  on  me.  .  .     [He  stabs  himself.] 

1  die  ...  do  thou  now  follow  my  example  .  .  . 
Bring,  bring  the  fatal  cup  ...  do  not  delay  .  .  . 

Isa.     Ah,  yes ;  I  follow  thee.     O  Death,  to  me 
Thou  art  most  welcome ;  in  thee  .  .  . 

Phi.  Thou  shalt  live  ; 

Spite  of  thyself,  shalt  live. 

Isa.  Ah,  let  me  .  .  .  O 

Fierce  torture  !  see,  he  dies :  and  I  ? 

Phi.  Yes,  thou, 

Sever'd  from  him,  shalt  live ;  live  days  of  woe : 
Thy  ling'ring  grief  will  be  a  joy  to  me. 
And  when  at  last,  recover'd  from  thy  love, 
Thou  wishest  to  live  on,  I,  then,  will  kill  thee. 

Jsa.     Live  in  thy  presence  ?  .  .  .  I  support  thy  sight  ? 
No,  that  shall  never  be  ...  My  doom  is  fix'd  .  .  . 
The  cup  refused,  thy  dagger  may  replace  it.  .  .      [She  darts  most 
rapidly  towards  the  dagger  of  Philip,  and  stabs  herself  with  it.] 

Phi.    Stop! 

Isa.  Now  I  die  .  .  . 

Phi.  Heav'ns,  what  do  I  behold  ? 

Jsa.     Thou  see'st  thy  wife  .  .  .  thy  son  .  .  .  both  innocent . . . 
And  both  by  thy  hands  slain  ...  —  I  follow  thee, 
Loved  Carlos  .  .  . 

Phi.  What  a  stream  of  blood  runs  here, 

And  of  what  blood  !  .  .  .  Behold,  I  have  at  least 
Obtained  an  ample,  and  a  horrid  vengeance  .  .  . 

282 


THE  DECADENCE   AND   REVIVAL 

But  am  I  happy  ?  .  .  .  —  Gomez,  do  thou  hide 
The  dire  catastrophe  from  all  the  world.  — 
By  silence,  thou  wilt  save  my  fame,  thy  life.1 

1  The  above  passages  are  taken  from  the  translation  of  Alfieri'a 
tragedies  by  Charles  Lloyd,  published  in  Bonn's  Library. 


283 


IX 

THE   NINETEENTH   CENTUEY 
T 

JL.N  the  history  of  Italy  as  a  whole,  the  nineteenth 
century  stands  forth  as  perhaps  the  most  important 
epoch  since  the  downfall  of  Rome.  For  fourteen 
hundred  years  the  devoted  land  had  been  the  battle- 
field of  the  nations.  The  vast  hordes  of  Goths, 
Huns,  Lombards,  Saracens  and  Normans  had  in 
turn  swept  like  a  devastating  flood  over  its  fertile 
plains  and  valleys.  Then,  when  a  new  nation  seemed 
about  to  rise  from  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  Roman 
people,  the  century-long  contest  between  the  Pope 
and  Emperor  divided  not  only  the  country  at  large 
into  the  warring  factions  of  Guelphs  and  Ghibel- 
lines,  but  filled  even  the  very  cities  with  discord  and 
bloody  feuds.  Later,  the  centuries  following  the  Re- 
naissance saw  the  still  sadder  spectacle  of  Italy  lying 
idle  and  helpless  while  the  mighty  ambitions  of 
Spain  and  France  struggled  for  her  possession,  a 
struggle  the  result  of  which,  as  we  have  already 
seen,  left  Italy  the  slave,  bound  hand  and  foot,  of 
Spanish  tyranny,  superstition  and  oppression. 
284 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

During  all  this  long  period,  there  was  practically 
no  patriotism  in  the  larger  sense  of  the  word,  no 
general  desire  for  a  united  country.  Only  the 
voice  of  the  sad-browed  Florentine  poet  was  heard 
through  the  long  centuries,  uttering  that  song, 
which  in  the  patriotic  revival  of  the  early  nine- 
teenth century, 

The  voices  of  the  city  and  the  sea, 

The  voices  of  the  mountains  and  the  pines 

repeated,  till  the  familiar  lines  became 

footpaths  for  the  thought  of  Italy. 

This  voice  of  Dante,  finding  an  echo  in  the  hearts 
of  such  men  as  Alfieri,  Foscolo  and  Mazzini,  did 
more  than  anything  else  to  bring  about  the  wonder- 
ful consummation  of  Italian  unity,  one  of  the  most 
significant  phenomena  of  a  century  destined  to  be 
known  in  history  as  the  century  of  science  and 
political  progress. 

The  story  of  the  Risorgimento  in  Italy,  with  its 
indomitable  energy,  its  inability  to  acknowledge 
defeat,  its  untiring  devotion  to  the  sacred  cause 
of  a  United  Fatherland,  is  full  of  inspiration.  The 
heroism  of  men  like  the  Bandiera  brothers,  the 
genius  and  unselfish  sacrifices  of  Mazzini,  the  legen- 
dary exploits  of  Garibaldi,  the  providential  events 
that  prepared  the  House  of  Savoy  to  take  the 
285 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

leadership  in  the  upbuilding  of  a  new  nation,  all 
the  epic  vicissitudes  of  that  long  struggle,  up  to 
the  fateful  20th  of  September,  1870,  when  the 
walls  of  Porta  Pia  were  broken  to  admit  the  victo- 
rious army  of  Victor  Emmanuel,  —  all  these  things 
form  a  story  at  once  fascinating  and  uplifting. 

The  literature  of  the  first  seven  decades  of  t  the 
nineteenth  century  is  deeply  impressed  with  this 
patriotic  and  national  character.  The  mighty  im- 
pulse given  to  it  by  the  dramas  of  Alfieri,  with  their 
fierce  hatred  of  tyranny  and  their  virile  procla- 
mation of  liberty,  was  carried  on  by  his  successors. 
It  is  true  that  one  of  the  greatest  of  the  early  poets 
of  the  century,  Vincenzo  Monti  (1754-1828),  can 
hardly  be  called  a  patriot,  in  the  stern  unbending 
sense  in  which  Alfieri  used  that  word.  Amiable 
though  he  was,  he  was  fickle,  having  the  principles 
of  a  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman  in  real  life,  seeking  for 
personal  advantage  in  the  troubled  waters  of  Italian 
politics  at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  and  the  begin- 
ning of  the  nineteenth  century.  Living  before, 
during  and  after  the  French  Revolution,  his  poetry 
follows  with  flexible  versatility  all  the  vicissitudes 
of  his  country  during  his  own  lifetime.  In  the 
"  Bassvilliana," 1  his  most  famous  poem,  he  scourged 

1  So  called  from  Hugon  de  Bassville,  a  French  diplomat,  who  waa 
286 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

the  excesses  of  the  French  Revolution,  only  to  re- 
cant later  and  turn  his  words  of  blame  into  praise. 
When  Napoleon  was  in  the  ascendant  in  Italy, 
Monti  dedicated  to  his  glory  a  number  of  poems ; 
but  when  the  "  great  wheel "  of  Napoleon's  prosper- 
ity began  to  roll  down  hill,  Monti  let  go  for  fear 
his  own  career  should  be  involved  in  the  ruin  of 
the  great  Corsican. 

Almost  every  other  writer,  however,  of  the  early 
nineteenth  century  contributed  his  share  to  the 
upbuilding  of  the  national  character  and  to  the 
preparation  for  that  unity  of  Italy  which  was  to 
come  so  many  years  later.  Thus  in  the  drama,  we 
have  the  "  Carmagnola  "  and  "  Adelchi "  of  Ales- 
sandro  Manzoni,  and  the  "  Arnold  of  Brescia  "  of 
Giovanni  Battista  Niccolini ;  in  satire  the  genial 
verses  of  Giuseppe  Giusti ;  and  in  the  novel,  the 
"  Battle  of  Benevento "  of  Francesco  Domenico 
Guerrazzi,  the  "  Niccolb  de'  Lapi "  of  Massimo 
d'  Azeglio.  the  "  Jacopo  Ortis  "  of  Ugo  Foscolo, 
and  especially  the  famous  "  Promessi  Sposi "  (the 
Betrothed)  of  Manzoni,  —  all  filled  with  intense 
indignation  at  the  degraded  state  of  Italy,  and  a 

killed  by  a  mob  in  Rome.     In  Monti's  poem,  his  spirit  is  allowed 
to  enter  Paradise  only  after  having  witnessed  all  the  horrors  com- 
mitted by  the  French  Revolution. 
287 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

burning  passion  for  a  free  and  united  country. 
The  same  end  was  sought  by  the  political  writ- 
ings of  Giuseppe  Mazzini,  the  pure-minded  patriot 
and  founder  of  the  famous  society  of  Young  Italy, 
— by  Vincenzo  Gioberti,  whose  "Moral  and  Civil 
Primacy  of  the  Italian  People  "  stirred  the  whole 
country  with  the  hope  of  a  Utopian  republic  under 
the  presidency  of  the  Pope;  by  Carlo  Botta  in 
his  historical  writings  ;  by  Silvio  Pellico  in  his 
pathetic  journal  of  his  experiences  as  a  political 
prisoner ;  and  even  by  Gabriele  Rossetti  in  his  anti- 
papal  commentary  on  Dante's  "  Divine  Comedy." 

The  various  phases  of  the  Romantic  movement, 
which  in  other  countries  was  purely  literary,  here 
took  on  a  peculiar  national  stamp.  The  treatment 
of  mediaeval  subjects,  the  new  view  of  nature  and 
man,  in  the  hands  of  such  writers  as  Mazzini,  Fos- 
colo,  and  Niccolini,  were  all  made  subservient  to 
the  patriotic  function  of  Italian  literature.  This 
is  especially  true  of  melancholy,  that  "Welt- 
schmerz  "  so  characteristic  of  the  whole  Romantic 
school,  and  which  in  Italy  had  more  than  a  senti- 
mental cause  in  the  condition  of  the  land. 

The  two  greatest  writers  of  the  first  half  of  the 
century  were  Alessandro  Manzoni  (1785-1873), 
and  Giacomo  Leopardi  (1798-1837).  The  former 
288 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

exerted  a  vast  influence  on  the  patriotic  literature 
of  the  times,  both  by  his  dramas,  already  referred 
to,  and  especially  by  his  famous  historical  novel 
"  I  Promessi  Sposi,"  —  one  of  the  greatest  novels 
of  any  time  or  country.  Through  this  book,  which 
described  with  the  effectiveness  of  a  truly  creative 
genius  the  wretched  state  of  Italy  under  Spanish 
rule,  Manzoni  became  the  most  popular  writer  in 
his  own  country,  and  enjoyed  a  widespread  fame 
throughout  all  Europe.  As  a  lyrical  poet  he  was 
scarcely  less  famous.  His  ode  entitled  the  "  Fifth 
of  May,"  written  on  the  death  of  Napoleon,  was 
universally  hailed  as  the  noblest  poem  of  the  times, 
and  was  translated  into  all  European  tongues. 

Still  greater  than  Manzoni,  though  less  fortunate 
in  reaping  the  rewards  of  greatness,  was  the  poet, 
philosopher,  and  classical  scholar  Leopardi.  He  was 
born  in  the  small  town  of  Recanati,  situated  among 
the  Abruzzi  Mountains,  where  his  father,  Count 
Monaldo  Leopardi,  lived  in  a  gloomy  chateau.  The 
young  Leopardi  came  into  the  world  endowed  with 
a  sickly  body  and  a  morbid  sensitiveness  of  disposi- 
tion. His  home  life  was  wretched,  utterly  lacking 
in  those  "little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts  of 
kindness  and  of  love  "  which  make  the  childhood  of 
most  men  the  happiest  period  of  their  lives.  His 
289 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

father  was  stern  and  set  in  his  ways,  and  hated  the 
new  French  doctrines  of  Church  and  State,  which, 
making  their  way  into  Italy,  soon  became  the  object 
of  passionate  devotion  on  the  part  of  Giacomo.  His 
mother  was  a  narrow  bigot,  without  any  apparent 
love  or  sympathy  for  her  sickly  child.  Shut  out 
from  all  society  by  his  rank  and  by  the  dearth  of 
congenial  companions  in  the  dull,  provincial  town 
of  Recanati,  the  young  boy  plunged  with  all  his 
heart  and  soul  into  the  study  of  Greek,  Latin,  He- 
brew, French,  and  German,  finding  the  necessary 
books  in  his  father's  library.  The  results  of  all  this 
passion  for  study  were  on  the  one  hand  marvelous, 
on  the  other  hand  disastrous.  At  the  age  of  seven- 
teen he  had  become  deeply  versed  in  Greek,  and 
certain  dissertations  of  his  on  Plotinus  caused  Nie- 
buhr  to  declare  that  he  was  the  foremost,  nay,  the 
only  Greek  scholar  in  Italy. 

But  this  severe  study,  accompanied  as  it  was  by 
an  utter  neglect  of  the  rules  of  hygiene,  by  lack  of 
cheerful  companions  and  sympathy  at  home,  ruined 
his  health.  From  now  on  to  the  end  of  his  life, 
his  existence  was  one  long  agony,  interrupted  by 
periods  of  feverish  study,  by  restless  wandering, 
or  by  the  composition  of  those  wonderful  poems 
which  have  given  him  a  place  in  the  literature  of 
290 


LEOPARDI 


THE  NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

Italy,  close  to  the  great  quadrumvirate  of  Dante, 
Petrarch,  Ariosto,  and  Tasso.  Life  for  him  became 
a  weary  pilgrimage,  unrelieved  either  by  present 
pleasure  or  by  the  hope  of  future  happiness.  The 
spirit  of  pessimism,  which  was  part  of  his  nature, 
now  became  his  constant  companion,  "  flesh  of  his 
flesh,  and  bone  of  his  bone."  He  remained  at  home, 
almost  a  prisoner,  until  in  1822  he  found  it  im- 
possible to  live  there  longer  and  went  to  Rome, 
where,  however,  he  soon  became  disgusted  with  the 
frivolous  social  life.  Later  we  find  him  in  Milan, 
where  he  wrote  his  commentary  on  Petrarch's 
Sonnets.  Thence  he  went  to  Florence,  but  soon  re- 
turned to  Recanati,  which  in  turn  he  again  left  to 
resume  his  wanderings  through  the  cities  of  Italy, 
always  struggling  with  poverty  and  ill  health,  and, 
worst  of  all,  the  prey  of  his  ever-increasing  spirit 
of  pessimism. 

In  1833  his  health  became  so  broken  that  it 
was  evident  that  the  end  was  not  far  off.  Accom- 
panied by  his  friend  Antonio  Ranieri,  he  went  to 
Naples,  where  he  died  June  14,  1837,  fifteen  days 
before  his  thirty-ninth  birthday. 

In  spite  of  this  brief  career,  with  its  many  periods 
of  enforced  idleness  caused  by  sickness,  Leopard! 
has  won  for  himself  a  high  rank  among  the  most 
291 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

distinguished  men  of  his  native  land.  It  is  the  com- 
mon opinion,  not  only  of  Italian  critics,  but  of  the 
world  at  large,  that  he  is  the  greatest  poet  of  mod- 
ern Italy.  Sainte-Beuve  called  him  the  "  noblest, 
calmest,  most  austere  of  poets,"  Matthew  Arnold 
says  he  is  worthy  to  be  "  named  with  Milton  and 
Dante,"  while  Gladstone  declared  that  he  was  "  one 
of  the  most  extraordinary  men  whom  this  century 
has  produced,  one  who  in  almost  every  branch  of 
mental  exertion  had  capacity  for  attaining  the  high- 
est excellence." 

His  literary  activity  manifested  itself  in  the  field 
of  classical  philology,  in  philosophy  and  in  poetry. 
The  keynote  to  his  philosophy  is  pessimism,  in 
which  during  his  whole  life  he  lived  and  moved 
and  had  his  being.  The  pessimism  of  Leopardi, 
unlike  the  "  Weltschmerz  "  of  Chateaubriand,  La- 
martine,  or  Byron, — which  always  seems  more  than 
half  affected,  and  is  largely  due  to  a  certain  fashion 
in  literature  at  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth 
century, —  is  sincere,  profound,  and  crushing.  Un- 
doubtedly, he  had  a  natural  tendency  to  melan- 
choly ;  and  the  excessive  study  of  his  early  years, 
his  morbid  sensitiveness,  the  lack  of  sympathy  and 
love,  his  poverty  and  pecuniary  embarrassments, 
the  wretched  state  of  Italy,  loved  by  him  so 
292 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

deeply,  —  all  these  added  to  the  dark  cloud  of 
melancholy  which  in  his  youth  shut  out  the  sun- 
shine from  his  world,  and  which  grew  ever  thicker 
and  blacker  as  his  life  drew  to  its  end. 

At  first  his  pessimism  was  merely  personal,  but 
soon  he  extended  it  to  all  modern  society,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  the  happy  days  of  early  Greece 
and  Home.  Last  of  all  he  made  pessimism  the 
corner-stone  of  his  philosophy  of  life.  Not  only  is 
the  world  in  misery  now,  but  it  always  has  been 
so  and  is  destined  to  be  so  to  the  end  of  time. 
Happiness,  virtue,  love,  the  beauty  of  nature,  even 
patriotism,  are  but  illusions,  iridescent  bubbles 
that  please  the  eye  of  inexperienced  youth,  but 
inevitably  passing  away  into  thin  air. 

Sadness  is  the  prevailing  note  in  the  poetry  of 
Leopardi,  even  when  he  writes  on  political  sub- 
jects. He  was  a  patriot,  not  virile,  hopeful,  ever 
fighting  as  Mazzini,  but  passive  and  despairing, 
pouring  out  his  love  for  his  native  land  in  lamenta- 
tions for  her  misery. 

My  native  land,  I  see  the  walls  and  arches, 
The  columns  and  the  statues,  and  the  lonely 
Towers  of  our  ancestors, 
But  not  their  glory,  not 
The  laurel  and  the  steel  that  of  old  time 
Our  great  forefathers  bore.   Disarmed  now, 
293 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Naked  tliou  showest  thy  forehead  and  thy  breast ! 

O  me,  how  many  wounds, 

What  bruises  and  what  blood !   How  do  I  see  thee, 

Thou  loveliest  Lady !    Unto  Heaven  I  cry, 

And  to  the  world :  "  Say,  say, 

Who  brought  her  unto  this  ?  "  To  this  and  worse, 

For  both  her  arms  are  loaded  down  with  chains, 

So  that,  unveiled  and  with  disheveled  hair, 

She  crouches  all  forgotten  and  forlorn, 

Hiding  her  beautiful  face 

Between  her  knees,  and  weeps. 

Weep,  weep,  for  well  thou  may'st,  my  Italy  ! 

Born,  as  thou  wert,  to  conquest, 

Alike  in  evil  and  in  prosperous  sort ! 

If  thy  sweet  eyes  were  each  a  living  stream, 
Thou  could'st  not  weep  enough 
For  all  thy  sorrow  and  for  all  thy  shame. 
For  thou  wast  queen,  and  now  thou  art  a  slave. 
Who  speaks  of  thee  or  writes, 
That  thinking  on  thy  glory  in  the  past 
But  says,  "  She  was  great  once,  but  is  no  more. " 
Wherefore,  oh  wherefore  ?  Where  is  the  ancient  strength, 
The  valor  and  the  arms,  the  constancy  ? 
Who  rent  the  sword  from  thee  ? 
Who  hath  betrayed  thee  ?    What  art,  or  what  toil, 
Or  what  o'erwhelming  force, 

Hath  stripped  thy  robe  and  golden  wreath  from  thee  ? 
How  didst  thou  fall,  and  when, 
From  such  height  unto  a  depth  so  low  ? 
Doth  no  one  fight  for  thee,  no  one  defend  thee, 
None  of  thy  own  ?     Arms,  arms !     For  I  alone 
Will  fight  and  fall  for  thee. 
Grant  me,  O  Heaven,  my  blood 
Shall  be  as  fire  unto  Italian  hearts ! 
294 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Where  are  thy  sous  ?     I  hear  the  sound  of  arms, 
Of  wheels,  of  voices,  and  of  drums ; 
In  foreign  fields  afar 
Thy  children  fight  and  fall 
Wait,  Italy,  wait !    I  see,  or  seem  to  see, 
A  tumult  as  of  infantry  and  horse, 
And  smoke  and  dust,  and  the  swift  flash  of  swords 
Like  lightning  among  clouds. 
Wilt  thou  not  hope  ?     Wilt  thou  not  lift  and  turn 
Thy  trembling  eyes  upon  the  doubtful  close  ? 
For  what,  in  yonder  fields, 
Combats  Italian  youth  ?     O  gods,  ye  gods, 
Oh,  misery  for  him  who  dies  in  war, 
Not  for  his  native  shores  and  his  beloved, 
His  wife  and  children  dear, 
But  by  the  foes  of  others 
For  others'  cause,  and  cannot  dying  say 
"  Dear  land  of  mine, 
The  life  thou  gavest  me  I  give  thee  back."  * 

Besides  his  patriotic  poems,  Leopardi's  poetry  is 
mainly  autobiographical,  or  rather  it  is  the  analysis 
of  the  hopes,  disappointments  and  despair  of  his 
own  soul.  From  his  early  youth  he  had  a  yearning 
for  love,  and  at  the  same  time  a  feeling  that  for 
such  as  he  woman's  love  was  not  to  be.  Two 
women  especially  seem  to  have  been  the  object  of 
his  affection,  one  of  whom  he  knew  in  early  life ; 

1  This   translation   is  taken   from  Modern  Italian   Poets,  by 
William  Dean  Howells,  published  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 
295 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

and  to  whom  he  addressed  his  poem  entitled  "  Sil- 
via." 

Silvia,  dost  them  still 

That  time  remember  of  thy  days  on  earth, 

When  beauty  in  thine  eyes,  that  flash'd  at  will 

Smiles  of  a  roguish  mirth, 

Shone  radiant,  and  the  girl, 

Joyous  at  whiles,  at  whiles  of  pensive  mood, 

Was  blossoming  into  lovelier  womanhood. 

From  out  thy  quiet  room, 

The  neighboring  street  along, 

Thy  voice  was  heard,  still  breaking  into  song, 

When  thou,  upon  thy  woman's  work  intent, 

Didst  sit,  the  long  day  through, 

Thy  thoughts  serenely  bent 

On  what  the  days  to  come  for  thee  might  do. 

'T  was  May,  with  all  its  fragrance  and  its  flowers, 

And  so  thine  hours  flow'd  onward —  happy  hours. 

Throwing  my  studies  for  awhile  aside, 

My  books  and  all  the  lore, 

That  't  was  my  joy  and  pride 

From  my  first  youth  to  ponder  o'er  and  o'er, 

I  hurried  from  my  room, 

And  from  a  casement  high 

Of  my  paternal  home,  at  sound 

Of  that  dear  voice,  would  strain 

My  ears  to  catch 

Its  every  tone,  and  watch 

The  nimble  hand  that  plied 

The  shuttle  of  the  overwearied  loom. 

296 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Above  me  was  the  sky,  a  cloudless  bine, 

Then  caught  my  eye 

The  gardens  down  below,  the  lanes  ablaze 

With  golden  leafage,  then  the  distant  sea, 

And  after  that  the  mountain  towering  nigh. 

No  tongue  of  man  can  say, 

What  rapturous  feelings  then  my  breast  did  sway. 

Oh,  what  sweet  thoughts,  what  hopes,  my  Silvia, 

Were  ours,  what  songs  with  ecstasy  elate  ! 

And  what  to  our  glad  eyes 

Seem'd  human  life  and  fate ! 

When  I  remember  all 

That  promised  then  so  fair, 

I  sink  disconsolate, 

My  thoughts  are  turned  to  gall, 

And  lamentation  of  my  hapless  state. 

O  Nature!   Nature!   Why, 

Why  not  fulfill  for  us 

What  thou  didst  promise  then  ?   Oh  why 

Befool  thy  children  thus  ? 

Ere  Winter  chill  had  yet  embrown'd  the  land, 
By  strange  disease  attacked  and  overcome, 
Thou,  darling,  wert  cut  off.    Thou  didst  not  see 
Thy  budding  years  to  perfect  flower  expand, 
.Nor  ever  throbb'd  thy  heart,  to  hear  the  praise 
Of  thy  dark  hair,  or  see'  love-lighted  eyes 
Bent  upon  thine  with  fond  admiring  gaze, 
Nor  ever  did  thy  mates  discourse  to  thee 
Of  love  on  festal  days. 

So,  too,  for  me 

Sweet  hope  was  slain.   So  also  to  my  years 

The  Fates  denied  a  Springtime.   How,  ah  how, 

297 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Hast  thou  pass'd  utterly  away  from  me, 
Thou  dear  companion  of  my  manhood's  dawn, 
My  hope,  for  ever  to  be  mourned  with  tears ! 
Is  this  the  world  our  fancy  drew  ?   Are  these 
The  joys,  the  love,  the  deeds,  the  scenes  to  be, 
Whereof  so  oft  in  happy  hours  we  spoke  ? 
Is  this  of  all  of  mortal  kind  the  doom  ? 
When  first  the  woful  truth  upon  us  broke, 
Thou,  hapless  one,  wast  stricken  to  the  heart, 
And  unto  thee  from  far  with  beckoning  hand 
It  show'd  chill  death,  and  a  dark  empty  tomb.i 

Leopardi  had  a  deep  love  for  nature,  of  which 
he  has  reproduced  many  phases  in  verse  of  ex- 
quisite beauty.  He,  however,  was  not  attracted  to 
its  bright  and  cheerful  aspects,  but  by  evening 
scenes,  by  moonlight,  and  lonely  landscapes,  such 
as  harmonize  with  his  own  melancholy  and  afford  a 
figure  of  man's  unhappy  state.  Thus,  in  the  "  Set- 
ting of  the  Moon,"  his  mind  is  drawn  by  the  scene 
before  him  to  thoughts  of  the  passing  away  of  life's 
illusions :  — 

The  shadows  melt  away  in  air, 
Mountain  and  vale  and  all  around 
Are  with  a  sombre  pall  embrown'd, 
And  night  is  left  forlorn  and  bare : 
And  with  a  song  of  doleful  strain 
The  waggoner  is  fain 
To  hail  the  last  departing  gleam 

1  Translated  by  Sir  Theodore  Martin. 
298 


Of  what  has  been  the  guide  all  night 

To  him  and  to  his  team ; 

So  doth  youth  disappear, 

And  quit  this  mortal  sphere  ! 

Away  they  fleet, 

Like  phantoms  of  a  dream, 

All  the  illusions  that  were  late  so  sweet, 

And  the  far-reaching  hopes, 

That  are  man's  chief  est  stay, 

Grow  fainter  day  by  day ; 

Life  is  in  darkness  wrapt,  profound, 

Black,  desolate,  and  drear, 

And  if  into  its  maze  he  tries  to  peer, 

The  'wildered  wayfarer  descries 

Nor  plan  nor  purpose,  goal  or  bound, 

In  the  long  vista  that  before  him  lies, 

And  sees  himself,  in  sooth,  a  stranger  and  alone, 

In  a  strange  world,  to  him  till  then  unknown.1 

The  following  lines  on  the  Infinite  reveal  not 
only  the  habitual  sadness  of  the  poet's  mind,  but 
likewise  the  power  of  his  imagination :  — 

This  lonely  knoll  was  ever  dear  to  me, 

This  hedgerow,  too,  that  hides  from  view  so  large 

A  portion  of  the  far  horizon's  verge. 

But  as  I  sit  and  gaze,  thoughts  rise  in  me 

Of  spaces  limitless  that  lie  beyond, 

Of  superhuman  silences,  and  depths 

Of  quietude  profound.  So  by  degrees 

Awe  troubles  not  my  heart.     And  as  I  hear 

The  wind  that  rustles  through  the  brake  hard  by, 

1  Martin. 
299 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

That  fitful  sound  with  these  vast  silences 
I  set  me  to  compare,  and  BO  recall 
Eternity,  and  the  roll  of  ages  dead, 
And  the  live  present,  with  its  mad  turmoil. 
Thus  thought  is  founder'd  in  immensity, 
And  shipwreck  in  that  ocean 's  sweet  to  me.1 

In  the  "  Night  Chant  of  a  Nomad  Asiatic  Shep- 
herd," the  lonely  beauty  of  night  leads  him  to  mel- 
ancholy reflections  on  the  mystery  of  human  life. 

What  doest  thou,  O  moon,  there  in  the  skies  ? 

Tell  me,  thou  silent  moon,  what  doest  thou  ? 

As  night  falls,  thou  dost  rise 

And  go  upon  thy  way, 

These  lonely  deserts  ever  in  thy  view, 

Then  sinkest  down  to  rest. 

Art  thou  not  weary  yet 

Of  traversing  again,  and  yet  again, 

One  everlasting  round  ? 

Art  thou  not  sick  at  best, 

Or  dost  thou  still  delight, 

In  gazing  on  these  valleys  mountain-hound  ? 

This  shepherd's  life  of  mine 

Is  very  like  to  thine. 

At  break  of  day  he  rises,  leads  his  flock 
Across  the  plains,  on,  onward,  ever  on  ; 
Cattle  he  sees,  spring-heads,  and  grass,  and  then 
At  eve  he  lays  him  down  to  rest  again : 
No  hope  for  anything  beyond  has  he. 

1  Martin. 
300 


THE  NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

Tell  me,  0  moon,  of  what  avail  ? 

Tell  me  whereto  they  tend, 

My  sojourn  here,  that  soon  must  have  an  end, 

And  thy  immortal  course,  that  ne'er  can  fail  ? 

Grown  old,  white-haired,  and  frail 

In  limb,  half -clad,  his  shoulders  bent 

Beneath  a  heavy  load, 

O'er  hill  and  dale  he  hies  him  on  his  road, 

O'er  cutting  rocks,  deep  sands,  through  brake  and  brier, 

Battered  by  wind  and  storm,  now  scorched  with  heat, 

Now  shrivell'd  up  by  cold  and  stung  by  sleet ; 

For  breath  he  pants,  yet  still  he  hurries  on 

Through  torrent,  marsh,  and  mire, 

Stumbles,  gets  up,  and,  quickening  his  pace, 

Stays  not  for  food  or  rest ; 

Tattered  and  torn,  with  bare  and  bleeding  feet, 

He  struggles  on  —  and  all  to  reach  at  last 

The  goal,  for  which  that  weary  road  was  trod, 

For  which  that  heavy  toil  was  undergone, 

Into  that  vast  abhorr'd  abyss  to  fall 

Headlong  and  find  therein 

Oblivion  of  all ! 

Such,  maiden  moon,  as  this 

The  life  of  mortals  is. 

For  trouble  man  is  born, 

And  birth  but  the  assurance  is  of  death  ; 

The  first  things  that  he  knows  are  grief  and  pain, 

And  even  while  yet  he  draws  his  earliest  breath, 

Mother  and  father  strain 

To  console  their  child  for  being  born. 

Then,  as  in  years  he  older  grows, 

They  give  him  help,  and  early  both  and  late, 

Study  by  word  and  deed 

301 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

To  put  heart  into  him,  and  make  amends 

For  what  he  must  endure  as  being  man. 

Nor  for  their  offspring  can 

Parents  do  service  to  more  gracious  ends,  — 

But  why  hare  brought  them  into  sunlight  ?   Why 

This  life  through  lengthening  days  uphold, 

That,  as  the  years  go  by, 

Perforce  must  for  its  being  be  consoled  ? 

And  why,  if  life  be  sad  beyond  relief, 

Should  we  thus  lengthen  out  its  tale  of  grief  ? 

And  such,  O  thou  inviolate  moon,  as  this 

The  life  of  mortals  is. 

But  mortal  thou  art  not,  and  so 

May'st  be  indifferent  to  my  tale  of  woe. 

And  yet  thou  lone,  eternal  pilgrim,  thou, 
That  art  so  pensive,  may'st  perchance 
Know  what  they  mean,  this  life  of  ours  on  earth, 
Our  sufferings,  our  sorrows,  and  couldst  tell 
This  dying,  what  it  means,  and  what  this  cold 
Uncoloring  of  the  countenance, 
This  passing  from  the  earth,  and  all 
Familiar  things  and  the  companionship 
Of  those  that  hold  us  dear ; 
And  of  a  surety,  thou  dost  know  full  well 
The  Why  of  things,  and  canst  perceive 
What  fruit  is  born  of  morning  and  of  eve, 
And  of  time's  silent,  everlasting  flow. 
Thou  knowest  surely  too  for  whom  the  Spring 
The  treasure  of  its  loving  smiles  unveils, 
To  whom  the  scorching  sunbeams  are  a  boon, 
Whom  Winter  profits  by  its  snows  and  ice  ; 
Thousands  of  things  thou  knowest,  and  thousands  canst  divine, 
That  are  from  me,  a  simple  shepherd,  hid. 
302 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Full  often  when  I  gaze  on  thee 
Standing  so  still  above  these  desert  wastes, 
Whose  far  circumference  borders  on  the  sky, 
Or,  as  my  flock  moves  with  me,  following  on, 
By  slow  and  silent  steps,  along  the  heavens ; 
Or  when  I  see  on  high  the  stars  aflame, 
Strange  thoughts  arise  within  me,  and  I  say, 
These  myriad  torches,  why  are  they  alight  ? 
Unto  what  end  that  infinite  of  air, 
Those  infinite  depths  of  azure  sky  serene  ? 
What  does  this  solitude  so  vast  import, 
And  what  am  I  ? 

Thus  with  myself  I  reason  ;  questioning 

Whereto  this  boundless  glorious  universe, 

And  living  things  innumerable  there  ? 

Then  of  the  ceaseless  toil  I  think,  the  mighty  powers. 

That  move  all  things  on  earth,  all  things  in  heaven, 

Revolving  without  pause  unceasingly, 

To  come  back  evermore  to  whence  they  sprang. 

Not  in  all  this  can  I  divine 

Or  use  or  profit ;  but  most  sure  it  is, 

That  thou,  immortal  maid,  dost  know  it  all. 

As  for  myself,  this  do  I  know  and  feel, 

That  from  these  constant  circlings  to  and  fro, 

And  this  so  fragile  entity  of  mine, 

Whate'er  perchance  they  may  of  woe  or  weal 

To  others  bring, 

To  me  life  sadness  is  and  suffering. 

Oh,  my  dear  flock,  that  resteth  there  so  still, 
How  happy  yon,  that,  as  I  do  believe, 
Have  no  forebodings  of  your  hapless  doom ! 
How  do  I  envy  you ! 

303 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Not  only  for  that  ye 

From  care  are  wellnigh  free, 

That  heat,  or  hurt,  or  toilsome  road, 

Or  even  the  wildest  scare 

By  you  so  quickly  are  forgot ; 

But,  rather,  that  you  ne'er 

Have  felt  the  pressure  of  life's  irksome  load. 

Laid  on  the  grass  to  rest,  beneath  the  shade, 

Ye  are  at  peace  and  utterly  content. 

For  months  and  months  such  is  thy  state  ; 

By  'noyance  of  no  kind  are  ye  perplexed. 

I  sit  me  down  beneath  the  welcome  shade, 

Upon  the  grass,  and  straight 

My  mind  is  cumbered  with  a  leaden  weight 

Of  dull  despondency,  and  thoughts  that  sting 

And  smite  as  with  a  goad. 

So,  sitting  there,  still  further  off  am  I 

From  finding  comfort  and  tranquillity ; 

And  yet  I  lack  for  nought, 

And  know  no  reason  why  I  should  be  sad. 

What  makes  your  happiness,  or  small  or  great, 

1  cannot  tell,  but  ye  are  fortunate, 

And  I,  my  flock,  have  little  joy  the  while  ; 

Nor  't  is  for  only  this  I  make  my  moan. 

If  ye  could  speak,  my  question  would  be  this : 

Tell  me  why  every  animal,  that  lies 

Couch'd  in  some  pleasant  spot,  and  takes  its  rest, 

Should  have  a  sense  of  bliss, 

But,  when  I  lay  me  down  to  rest,  a  sense 

Of  sadness  and  disgust  takes  hold  of  me. 

Perchance  if  I  had  wings, 
Above  the  clouds  to  fly, 
304 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

And  one  by  one  to  number  all  the  stars ; 

Or  could  like  lightning  dart  from  peak  to  peak, 

I  should  be  happier,  my  beloved  flock, 

And  thou  be  happier,  too,  thou  pale,  white  moon : 

And  yet  my  thoughts,  mayhap,  are  far  astray, 

Of  what  the  lot  of  other  lives  may  be. 

Mayhap,  whatever  their  form,  whate'er  their  state,— 

In  kindly  homestead  or  in  savage  lair,  — 

To  everything  that  breathes  its  natal  day 

A  day  is  of  disaster  and  dismay.1 

Leopard!  wrote  no  more  beautiful  or  touching  ex- 
pression of  his  own  despair  than  in  the  poem  entitled 
"  Sappho's  Last  Song,"  which  may  be  regarded  as 
the  classic  poem  of  pessimism  in  general :  — 

Night,  restful  night,  and  the  declining  moon's 
Wan  bashful  rays,  and  thou,  that  gleamest  through 
The  fringe  of  silent  woodland  on  the  cliff, 
Day's  harbinger !  how  very  sweet  and  dear 
These  sights  were  to  my  eyes,  while  yet  to  me 
Fate  and  dread  Erinnyes  were  unknown ! 
Now  gentle  sounds  and  sights  to  my  despair, 
Lovelorn,  bring  no  delight.  I  feel  a  joy, 
A  joy,  that  never  heretofore  I  felt 
When,  wild  careering  through  the  liquid  air, 
And  o'er  the  quaking  plains,  the  South  wind  blast 
Sweeps  storms  of  blinding  dust,  and  when  the  car, 
The  ponderous  car  of  Jove,  loud  thundering, 
High  o'er  our  heads,  rends  the  sky's  murky  pall ; 
It  gives  me  joy,  'moug  storm-tost  clouds  to  float 

l  Martin. 
305 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

O'er  headlands  grim,  and  chasms  immersed  in  gloom, 
To  see  the  panic  flight  of  herds,  and  hear 
The  torrent  smite  its  banks  with  sounding  thud, 
And  the  triumphant  rage  of  the  resistless  flood. 

Fair  is  thy  vesture,  O  thou  sky  divine, 
And  fair,  O  dewy  earth,  art  thou !   Alas  ! 
No  share  of  all  this  beauty  have  the  Gods 
And  cruel  fate  to  luckless  Sappho  given. 
To  thy  proud  realms,  to  all  thy  beauteous  forms, 
O  nature,  I,  an  outcast,  vile,  despised 
By  him  I  love,  my  heart  and  pleading  eyes 
Turn  all  in  vain.   Joy  there  is  none  for  me 
In  sunny  meads,  or  in  the  maiden  flush 
Of  dawn  forth  issuing  from  the  gates  of  heaven ; 
Me  not  the  song  of  plumaged  birds  delights, 
Nor  the  soft  murmuring  of  the  beech-tree  leaves ; 
And  where  the  shimmering  stream  beneath  the  shade 
Of  willows  drooping  to  receive  her  kiss 
Unbares  her  spotless  bosom,  from  my  foot 
Her  winding  current  she  withdraws  in  scorn, 
Flies  through  her  fragrant  banks,  and  leaves  me  all  forlorn. 

What  deadly  fault,  what  infamy  profane 
Polluted  me  ere  I  was  born,  that  heaven 
And  fortune  both  should  frown  upon  me  thus  ? 
How  sinn'd  I  as  a  child,  sinn'd  at  a  time 
When  life  is  ignorant  of  all  misdeed, 
That  the  fair  scheme  and  blossoms  of  my  youth 
Should  thus  be  blighted,  that  my  iron  thread 
Round  the  relentless  Parca's  spindle  should 
Be  whirled  in  such  sad  wise  ?   Rashly  the  words 
Fell  from  my  lips  !   Mysterious  counsels  sway 
The  destinies  of  things.   'T  is  mystery  all, 
All  save  our  sorrows  here.   A  race  nnblest 
We  are,  to  affliction  born ;  and  wherefore  so 
306 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Lies  in  the  lap  of  the  Celestials. 

Ah  me  !  the  longings,  aspirations,  hopes, 

Of  days  when  we  were  young !   The  all-ruling  Sire, 

The  Powers  Eternal  dower'd  mankind  with  all 

The  dreams,  the  illusions  that  appeared  so  fair. 

A  man  in  manly  enterprise  may  shine, 

Be  rich  in  storied  verse,  divine  in  song, 

Yet,  poorly  clad,  will  pass  unnoted  by  the  throng. 

Then  let  me  die.   Its  veil  ignoble  doff'd, 
The  naked  soul  to  Dis  will  wing  its  flight, 
And  mend  the  cruel  blunder  of  the  blind 
Dispenser  of  events.   And  thon,  to  whom 
Long  bootless  love,  unswerving  constancy, 
And  the  vain  frenzy  of  unslaked  desire 
Bound  me,  live  happily  !    Me  Jove  did  not 
With  the  sweet  juice  besprinkle  from  the  vase 
That  of  its  balm  is  niggard,  when  the  dreams 
And  fond  delusions  of  my  girlish  days 
Died  out.  The  first  to  flee  away  are  all 
The  days  that  are  the  brightest  of  our  life ; 
Then  come  disease,  old  age,  and  icy  death's 
Dark  shadow,  and  to  hope's  triumphant  dreams, 
And  cherished  fancies,  Tartarus  succeeds  ; 
And  genius,  erst  so  vaunting,  sinks,  the  prey 
Of  her  that  over  Hades  reigns  supreme, 
Of  black  unending  night,  and  Acheron's  silent  stream  t l 

This  world-weariness  of  Sappho,  the  yearning 
for  the  rest  of  the  grave,  finds  more  personal  ex- 
pression in  the  most  pathetic  of  all  of  Leopardi's 
poems,  that  to  Himself :  — 

1  Martin. 
307 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Now  thou  sha.lt  rest  forever, 

O  weary  heart !    The  last  deceit  is  ended, 

For  I  believed  myself  immortal.   Cherished 

Hopes,  and  beloved  delusions, 

And  longings  to  be  deluded,  —  all  are  perished  1 

Rest  thee  forever !    Oh,  greatly, 

Heart,  hast  thou  palpitated.   There  is  nothing 

Worthy  to  move  thee  more,  nor  is  earth  worthy 

Thy  sighs.   For  life  is  only 

A  heap  of  dust.   So  rest  thee ! 

Despair  for  the  last  time.   To  our  race  Fortune 

Never  gave  any  gift  but  death.   Disdain,  then, 

Thyself  and  Nature  and  the  Power 

Occultly  reigning  to  the  common  ruin : 

Scorn,  heart,  the  infinite  emptiness  of  all  things ! 1 

During  the  whole  of  the  patriotic  period  of  Italian 
literature,  there  was  a  plenitude  of  poets ;  yet  the 
vast  majority  of  them  have  lived  their  life  on  the 
stage,  have  reaped  their  meed  of  praise  or  blame 
and  are  now  rapidly  passing  into  oblivion.  The 
more  important  names  of  the  early  part  of  the  cen- 
tury we  have  already  mentioned.  Among  those  who 
flourished  toward  the  middle  of  the  century,  and 
who  deserve  mention  even  in  this  brief  sketch,  are 
Francesco  dalT  Ongaro  (1808-1873),  whose  pa- 
triotic songs  give  a  life-like  picture  of  the  suffer- 
ings and  aspirations  of  the  people  in  the  war  for 
liberty ;  the  sentimental  and  romantic  Giovanni 

1  Howells. 
308 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Prati  (1815-1884)  ;  and  Aleardo  Aleardi  (1812- 
1878),  whose  contemplative  poetry  and  feeling  for 
nature  remind  us  of  Lamartine.  The  number  of 
contemporary  poets  is  likewise  large,  including  such 
names  as  Luigi  Capuana,  Edmondo  de  Aniicis, 
Guido  Mazzoni,  Enrico  Panzacchi,  Giovanni  Pas- 
coli,  and  Lorenzo  Stecchetti  (pen-name  for  Olindo 
Guerrini).  For  one  reason  or  another  we  select 
among  these  contemporary  names  five  as  worthy  of 
especial  mention :  Giosue  Carducci,  Arturo  Graf, 
Antonio  Fogazzaro,  Ada  Negri  and  Gabriele  d'  An- 
nunzio. 

Greatest  of  all  these  and  undoubtedly  the  great- 
est of  modern  Italian  poets  since  the  time  of  Leo- 
pardi,  is  Giosue  Carducci.  Born  in  183 6,  in  Valdi- 
castello,  in  the  province  of  Tuscany,  where  his  father 
was  a  physician,  he  received  an  excellent  education, 
and  devoting  himself  to  the  life  of  a  teacher  and 
scholar,  became  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-four  years 
professor  in  the  University  of  Bologna,  where  he  has 
remained  until  this  day,  revered  by  his  colleagues 
and  pupils.  When,  a  few  years  ago,  the  thirty-fifth 
anniversary  of  his  first  lecture  as  professor  was  cele- 
brated, all  Italy  streamed  to  Bologna  to  do  him 
honor,  while  royalty  itself  sent  him  messages  of  love 
and  congratulation.  A  writer  at  the  time  says : 
309 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

•*  Seldom  if  ever  since  Petrarch  has  any  living 
poet  received  such  overwhelming  tokens  of  love  and 
reverence."  No  happier  lot  can  be  conceived  than 
that  of  Carducci  at  the  present  time.  An  honored 
scholar,  a  great  poet,  the  intimate  friend  of  Queen 
Margarita,  the  idol  of  the  cultured  youth  of  Italy, 
and  one  of  the  few  survivors  of  the  past  generation 
of  lofty,  high-minded  patriots,  he  reaps  to  an  un- 
usual degree  the  fruits,  of  a  life  of  singular  probity, 
faithfulness  to  duty  and  unwearied  struggle  for 
the  independence  and  unity  of  his  native  land. 

The  whole  course  of  Carducci's  life  is  closely  con- 
nected with  the  history  of  the  Risorgimento.  His 
poetry  reflects  all  phases  of  that  epic  struggle,  and 
future  generations  will  study  his  works  for  the 
spirit,  as  they  will  turn  the  pages  of  history  for 
the  outward  facts  of  the  movement.  Carducci  is  not 
merely  a  poet,  but  a  literary  critic  and  scholar  of 
the  first  class.  Few  men  have  done  more  than  he 
has  in  recent  years  toward  the  interpretation  and 
illustration  of  the  great  poets  of  Italy,  especially 
Dante,  Petrarch  and  Leopardi.  His  significance 
for  us,  however,  lies  not  in  his  literary  criticism, 
but  in  his  poetry.  Here  we  see  plainly  reflected 
the  sentiments,  ideas  and  feelings  of  his  soul  in  the 
presence  of  nature,  history  and  the  many-sided 
310 


CARDUCCI 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

drama  of  modern  life,  all  expressed  in  a  style  com- 
pact,  terse,  yet  marked  by  classic  elegance  and  grace. 

For  Carducci  is  the  leader  of  the  reaction  against 
Romanticism  in  Italy,  and  the  founder  of  a  new 
school  of  classic  art.  When  his  "  Odi  Barbare  "  was 
published,  a  violent  contest  took  place  over  the  form 
of  many  of  his  poems,  which  were  an  attempt  to  in- 
troduce into  modern  Italian  the  metrical  effects  of 
Horace  and  other  classic  writers.  His  influence  has 
been  deep  and  lasting  on  the  outer  form  of  poetry, 
which  under  the  exaggerations  of  Romanticism  had 
lost  much  of  that  classic  simplicity  and  good  taste 
so  natural  to  the  Italian  artistic  mind.  Carducci  is 
not  a  popular  poet,  in  the  general  acceptation  of 
that  word,  and  has  often  been  accused  even  by  his 
own  countrymen  of  being  obscure.  This  difficulty 
of  being  understood,  however,  does  not  come  from 
real  obscurity,  either  of  thought  or  expression,  but 
from  the  compactness  of  style,  and  the  wealth  of 
allusions,  in  which  he  resembles  Horace  more,  per- 
haps, than  any  other  modern  writer. 

Among  the  many  phases  of  Carducci's  character, 
as  reflected  in  his  poetry,  we  find  a  deep  and  earnest 
love  for  nature,  of  which  he  is  fond  of  catching  and 
describing  every  phase,  almost  always  adding  to  it 
some  touch  of  personal  experience,  joy,  sorrow  or 
311 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

loss  of  faith.  He  loves  the  bright  sunlight  of  Italy, 
shining  on  the  streets  of  the  busy  city  —  thus,  says 
he,  love  shines  on  the  heart,  scattering  the  clouds 
of  melancholy  which  surround  it :  — 

Fleecy  and  white  into  the  western  space 
Hurry  the  clouds  ;  the  wet  sky  laughs 
Over  the  market  and  streets ;  and  the  labour  of  man 
Is  hailed  by  the  sun,  benign,  triumphal. 

High  in  the  rosy  light  lifts  the  cathedral 

Its  thousand  pinnacles  white  and  its  saints  of  gold 

Flashing  forth  its  hosannas  ;  while  all  around 

Flutter  the  wings  and  the  notes  of  the  brown-plumed  choir. 

So  't  is  when  love  and  its  sweet  smile  dispel 
The  clouds  which  had  so  sorely  me  oppressed ; 
The  sun  again  arises  in  my  soul 

With  all  life's  holiest  ideals  renewed 

And  multiplied,  the  while  each  thought  becomes 
A  harmony  and  every  sense  a  song.1 

Not  only  is  he  attracted  by  the  picturesque 
beauty  of  inanimate  nature,  but  by  animal  life  as 
well,  even  in  its  humbler  forms.  He  does  not  sing 
of  the  lion  and  tiger,  as  his  contemporary  Leconte 
de  Lisle  has  done,  but  of  the  horse,  the  ox,  and 
even  the  patient  ass.  His  sonnet  on  the  ox  is  one 

1  The  following  translations  (unless  otherwise  specified)  are 
from  Poems  of  Giosue  Carducci,  translated  by  Frank  Sewall,  pub- 
lished by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co. 

312 


THE   NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

of  his  best  productions,  distinguished  as  it  is  by  a 
sort  of  statuesque  beauty  of  style  :  — 

I  love  thee,  pious  ox ;  a  gentle  feeling 
Of  vigour  and  of  peace  thou  givest  my  heart. 
How  solemn,  like  a  monument,  thou  art ! 
Over  wide  fertile  fields  thy  calm  gaze  stealing, 
Unto  the  yoke  with  grave  contentment  kneeling, 
To  man's  quick  work  thou  dost  thy  strength  impart, 
He  shouts  and  goads,  and  answering  thy  smart, 
Thou  turn'at  on  him  thy  patient  eyes  appealing. 

From  thy  broad  nostrils,  black  and  wet,  arise 

Thy  breath's  soft  fumes  ;  and  on  the  still  air  swells, 

Like  happy  hymn,  thy  lowing's  mellow  strain. 

In  the  grave  sweetness  of  thy  tranquil  eyes 

Of  emerald,  broad  and  still,  reflected  dwells 

All  the  divine  green  silence  of  the  plain. 

Standing  in  the  graveyard  of  the  Certosa  at 
Bologna,  he  thinks  of  the  dead,  not  as  at  rest  after 
life's  fitful  fever,  not  as  among  the  innumerable 
company  of  just  men  made  perfect  in  the  presence 
of  God  and  the  angels,  but  lying  in  the  cold  and 
darkness  of  the  mouldering  earth,  shut  out  forever 
from  the  beauty  of  nature,  giving  voice  to  their 
envy  of  those  happy  mortals  still  lingering  in  the 
dolce  vita  above  :  — 

The  dead  are  saying :  "  Blessed  are  ye  who  walk  along  the  hill- 
sides 

Flooded  with  the  warm  rays  of  the  golden  sun. 
313 


THE  GREAT   POETS   OF  ITALY 

"  Cool  murmur  the  waters  through  flowery  slopes  descending, 
Singing  are  the  birds  to  the  verdure,  singing  the  leaves  to  the 
wind. 

"  For  you  are  smiling  the  flowers  ever  new  on  the  earth ; 
For  you  smile  the  stars,  the  flowers  eternal  of  heaven." 

The  dead  are  saying :  "  Gather  the  flowers,  for  they  too  pass 

away ; 
Adore  the  stars,  for  they  pass  never  away. 

"  Rotted  away  are  the  garlands  that  lay  around  our  damp  skulls. 
Roses  place  ye  around  the  tresses  golden  and  black. 

"  Down  here  it  is  cold.     We  are  alone.     Oh,  love  ye  the  sun  I 
Shine,  constant  star  of  Love,  on  the  life  which  passes  away  !  " 

So,  too,  in  "  Ruit  Hora,"  he  describes  the  hour  of 
twilight,  the  heure  exquise  of  Paul  Verlaine,  that 
time  of  day  so  beautifully  described  by  Dante  in  the 
eighth  canto  of  the  "  Purgatorio."  In  this  poem 
there  is  an  evident  reminiscence  of  Horace,  yet 
with  a  touch  of  sadness  that  Horace  never  knew:  — 

O  now  so  long-desired,  thou  verdurous  solitude, 
Far  from  all  rumour  of  mankind  ! 
Hither  we  come  companioned  by  two  friends  divine, 
By  wine  and  love,  O  Lydiu. 

Ah,  see  how  laughs  in  sparkling  goblets  crystalline 
Lyseus,  god  eternal-young ! 
How  in  thy  dazzling  eyes,  resplendent  Lydia. 
Love  triumphs  and  unbinds  himself ! 
314 


THE   NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

Low  down  the  sun  peeps  in  beneath  the  trellised  vine, 
And  rosily  reflected,  gleams 

Within  my  glass  ;  golden  it  shines,  and  tremulous, 
Among  thy  tresses,  Lydia. 

Among  thy  raven  tresses,  O  white  Lydia, 
One  pale-hued  rose  is  languishing' ; 
Softly  upon  my  heart  a  sudden  sadness  falls, 
Falls  to  restrain  Love's  rising  fires. 

Tell  me,  wherefore  beneath  the  flaming  sunset-sky 
Mysterious  lamentations  moan 

Up  from  the  sea  below  ?  Lydia,  what  songs  are  they 
Yon  pines  unto  each  other  sing  ? 

See  with  what  deep  desire  yon  darkening  hills  outstretch 
Their  summits  to  the  sinking  son : 

The  shadow  grows,  and  wraps  them  round ;  they  seem  to  ask 
The  last  sweet  kiss,  O  Lydia. 

I  seek  thy  kisses  when  the  shade  envelops  me, 
Lyseus,  thou  who  givest  joy ; 
I  seek  thy  loving  eyes,  resplendent  Lydia, 
When  Great  Hyperion  falls. 

Now  falls,  now  falls  the  imminent  hour.    O  roseate  lips, 
Unclose  :  O  blossom  of  the  soul, 
O  flower  of  all  desire,  open  thy  petals  wide : 
Beloved  arms,  unclose  yourselves.1 

Likewise  Horatian  in  sentiment  as  well  as  in 

1  Translated  by  Greene,  in  his  Italian  Lyrists  of  To-day.    Pub- 
lished by  John  Lane. 

315 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

form,  and  with  a  still  deeper  tinge  of  sadness, 
which,  in  spite  of  his  hatred  of  Romanticism  and  of 
sentimental  religion,  he  cannot  shake  off,  is  the 
beautiful  poem  on  "  Monte  Mario :  "  — 

Cypresses  solemn  stand  on  Monte  Mario ; 
Luminous,  quiet  is  the  air  around  them  : 
They  watch  the  Tiber  through  the  misty  meadows 
Wandering  voiceless. 

They  gaze  beneath  them  where,  a  silent  city, 
Borne  lies  extended ;  like  a  giant  shepherd, 
O'er  flocks  unnumbered,  vigilant  and  watchful, 
Rises  St.  Peter's. 

Friends,  on  the  summit  of  the  sunlit  mountain 
Mix  we  the  white  wine,  scintillating  brightly 
In  mirrored  sunshine  ;  smile,  O  lovely  maidens ; 
Death  comes  to-morrow. 

Lalage,  touch  not  in  the  scented  copses 
The  boasted  laurel  that  is  called  eternal, 
Lest  it  should  lose  there,  in  thy  chestnut  tresses, 
Half  of  its  splendour. 

Between  the  verses  pensively  arising, 
Mine  be  the  laughter  of  the  joyous  vintage, 
And  mine  the  rosebuds  fugitive,  in  winter 
Flowering  to  perish. 

We  die  to-morrow,  as  the  lost  and  loved  ones 
Yesterday  perished ;  out  of  all  men's  mem'ries 
And  all  men's  loving,  shadow-like  and  fleeting 
We  too  shall  vanish. 

316 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Yes,  we  must  die,  friends ;  and  the  earth,  unceasing 
Still  in  its  labour,  round  the  sun  revolving, 
Shall  ev'ry  instant  send  out  lives  in  thousands, 
Sparks  evanescent ; 

Lives  which  in  new  loves  passionate  shall  quiver, 
Lives  which  in  new  wars  conquering  shall  triumph, 
And  unto  gods  new  sing  in  grander  chorus 
Hymns  of  the  future. 

Nations  unborn  yet !  in  whose  hands  the  beacon 
Shall  blaze  resplendent,  which  from  ours  has  fallen, 
Ye  too  shall  vanish,  luminous  battalions, 
Into  the  endless. 

Farewell,  thou  mother,  Earth,  of  my  brief  musings, 
And  of  my  spirit  fugitive !     How  much  thou, 
/Eons-long  whirling,  round  the  sun  shalt  carry 
Glory  and  sorrow ! 

Till  the  day  comes,  when,  on  the  chilled  equator, 
Following  vainly  heat  that  is  expiring, 
Of  Man's  exhausted  race  survive  one  only 
Man,  and  one  woman, 

Who  stand  forsaken  on  the  ruined  mountains, 
Mid  the  dead  forests,  pale,  with  glassy  eyeballs, 
Watching  the  sun's  orb  o'er  the  fearful  icefields 
Sink  for  the  last  time.1 

Equal  to  his  love  for  the  natural  beauty  of  Italy, 
her  sun,  her  blue  skies,  her  rugged  hills,  is  Car- 
ducci's  love  for  the  history  and  the  literature  of 

1  Greene. 
317 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

his  native  land.  Of  the  large  number  of  poems  de- 
voted to  patriotic  themes,  —  elegies  on  martyrs  and 
patriots,  contempt  for  priestcraft  and  the  temporal 
power  of  the  Pope,  hymns  of  praise  to  the  House 
of  Savoy,  —  we  have  only  room  to  quote  one,  —  his 
famous  sonnet  on  Rome :  — 

Give  to  the  wind  thy  locks ;  all  glittering 
Thy  sea-blue  eyes,  and  thy  white  bosom  bared, 
Mount  to  thy  chariots,  while  in  speechless  roaring 
Terror  and  Force  before  thee  clear  the  way ! 

The  shadow  of  thy  helmet  like  the  flashing 
Of  brazen  star  strikes  through  the  trembling  air. 
The  dust  of  broken  empires,  cloud-like  rising, 
Follows  the  awful  rumbling  of  thy  wheels. 

So  once,  0  Rome,  beheld  the  conquered  nations 
Thy  image,  object  of  their  ancient  dread. 
To-day  a  mitre  they  would  place  upon 

Thy  head,  and  fold  a  rosary  between 
Thy  hands.   0  name !  again  to  terrors  old 
Awake  the  tired  ages  and  the  world  ! 

Carducci's  work  as  professor  of  literature  has  led 
him  to  deep  and  profound  study  of  the  great  poets 
both  of  classic  Greece  and  Rome  and  of  modern 
Italy.  He  is,  however,  no  mere  mechanical  investi- 
gator, burying  himself  in  the  dust  of  bygone  years, 
but  is  filled  with  living,  passionate  love  for  all  that 
is  great  in  literature.  The  results  of  his  long  years 
318 


THE  NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

of  critical  work,  both  in  regard  to  the  subject  and 
form  of  poetry,  is  enough  to  fill  a  number  of  vol- 
umes. Not  only  in  his  prose  writings,  however,  do 
we  find  the  influence  of  his  studies,  but  in  all  his 
poetry,  both  in  the  reform  of  outward  expression 
(shown  especially  in  the  effort  to  engraft  upon 
Italian  poetry  the  metrical  forms  of  the  classics) 
and  in  constant  reference  or  allusion  to  the  great 
poets  of  all  times  and  nations.  This  union  of  form 
and  subject  is  well  seen  in  the  following  sonnet  on 
the  Sonnet,  worthy  to  be  classed  with  the  similar 
productions  by  Wordsworth  and  Keats :  — 

From  Dante's  lips  the  Sonnet  soared  divine 

On  angel's  wings  through  azure  air  and  gold ; 

On  Petrarch's  't  was  the  speech  of  hearts  that  pine, 

A  stream  from  heaven  in  murmuring  verse  outrolled  ; 

The  Mantuan  nectar  and  the  Venusine, 
To  Tibur  granted  by  the  muse  of  old, 
Torquato  gave ;  a  dart,  a  fiery  sign, 
Alfieri  hurled  it  'gainst  the  tyrant's  hold ; 

The  nightingale  in  Ugo's l  sweetest  lays 
Beneath  the  Ionian  cypress  made  it  ring, 
Acanthus-blossomed,  o'er  his  native  bays ; 

And  I,  not  sixth,  but  last,  as  joy  I  bring, 
Tears,  perfume,  wrath,  and  Art,  in  lonely  days 
Its  fame  recall,  as  to  the  tombs  I  sing.2 

J  Ugo  Foscolo.  2  Greene. 

319 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Carducci's  love  for  Vergil  finds  frequent  expres- 
sion in  his  poetry  ;  never  was  a  more  beautiful  trib- 
ute paid  to  the  "  wielder  of  the  stateliest  measure 
ever  moulded  by  the  lips  of  man,"  than  in  the 
following  sonnet :  — 

As  when  above  the  heated  fields  the  moon 
Hovers  to  spread  its  veil  of  summer  frost, 
The  brook  between  its  narrow  banks  half  lost 

Glitters  in  pale  light,  murmuring  its  low  tune  ; 

The  nightingale  pours  forth  her  secret  boon 
Whose  strains  the  lonely  traveller  accost ; 
He  sees  his  dear  one's  golden  tresses  tossed, 

And  time  forgets  in  love's  entrancing  swoon ; 

And  the  orphaned  mother  who  has  grieved  in  vain 

Upon  the  tomb  looks  to  the  silent  skies 

And  feels  their  white  light  on  her  sorrow  shine ; 

Meanwhile  the  mountains  laugh,  and  the  far-off  main, 
And  through  the  lofty  trees  a  fresh  wind  sighs : 
Such  is  thy  verse  to  me,  Poet  divine  ! 

But  the  especial  object  of  Carducci's  love  and 
reverence  is  the  great  poet  and  patriot,  Dante 
Alighieri,  whose  extraordinary  revival  in  the  early 
part  of  the  nineteenth  century  was  one  of  the  most 
powerful  factors  in  the  movement  of  the  Bisorgi- 
mento.  Not  only  does  he  address  him  in  a  number 
of  poems,  not  only  does  he  refer  to  him  again  and 
320 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

again,  but  the  influence  of  Dante  on  his  thoughts, 
feelings,  and  even  his  diction  is  seen  in  nearly 
everything  he  wrote.  No  better  brief  account  of 
the  meaning  of  Dante's  work  can  be  found  than  in 
Carducci's  lecture  on  the  "  Opera  di  Dante,"  which 
he  delivered  in  Rome,  January  7,  1888.  The  same 
subject  is  beautifully  treated  in  the  sonnet  in  which 
Carducci  declares  his  unchangeable  love  for  the 
Divine  Poet,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he,  the  ardent 
patriot  of  a  United  Italy  and  disbeliever  in  the 
Roman  Church,  cannot  accept  Dante's  theory  either 
of  church  or  state :  — 

O  Dante,  why  it  is  that  I  adoring 

Still  lift  my  songs  and  vows  to  thy  stern  face, 
And  sunset  to  the  morning  grey  gives  place 

To  find  me  still  thy  restless  verse  exploring  ? 

Lucia  prays  not  for  my  poor  soul's  resting ; 
For  me  Matilda  tends  no  sacred  fount ; 
For  me  in  vain  the  sacred  lovers  mount, 

0  'er  star  and  star  to  the  eternal  soaring. 

1  hate  the  Holy  Empire,  and  the  crown 
And  sword  alike  relentless  would  have  riven 
From  thy  good  Frederic  on  Olona's  plains. 

Empire  and  Church  to  ruin  have  gone  down, 
And  yet  for  them  thy  songs  did  scale  high  heaven. 
Great  Jove  is  dead.     Only  the  song  remains. 
321 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

Indeed,  there  is  no  more  characteristic  feature 
of  Carducci  than  his  revolt  against  not  only  the 
Roman  Church,  with  its  superstitions,  its  mass  of 
meaningless  forms  and  its  claim  of  temporal  power, 
but  also  against  the  whole  system  and  influence  of 
Christianity.  He  repudiates  the  Christian  virtues 
as  something  foreign  to  the  great  Latin  race  to 
which  he  belongs.  He  glorifies  the  old  classic  pagan 
spirit,  its  objectivity  as  opposed  to  the  gloomy  sub- 
jectivity of  Christianity,  its  love  of  beauty  and  its 
joy  in  the  sunshine  and  glory  of  this  world,  while 
he  dismisses  thoughts  of  the  other  world,  as  be- 
yond our  ken.  The  most  audacious  of  all  his  poems 
is  the  "  Hymn  to  Satan,"  published  in  1865,  which 
aroused  fierce  controversy.  Less  violent,  yet  show- 
ing equally  his  antipathy  to  what  he  would  call  the 
"  cunningly  devised  "  fable  of  Christianity,  are  the 
following  two  poems.  In  the  first,  entitled  "  Pan- 
theism," it  is  not  the  spirit  of  God  which  permeates 
nature,  but  the  spirit  of  sensuous  love,  the  ewig 
weibliche,  that  "  spell  of  femininity  which  is  on  the 
blood  of  all  mankind :  "  — 

I  told  it  not,  O  vigilant  stars,  to  you ; 
To  thee,  all-seeing  sun,  I  made  no  moan  ; 
Her  name,  the  flower  of  all  things  fair  and  true, 
Was  echoed  in  my  silent  heart  alone. 
322 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Yet  now  my  secret  star  tells  unto  star, 

Through  the  brown  night,  to  some  vague  sphery  tone ; 

The  great  sun  smiles  at  it,  when,  sinking  far, 

He  whispers  love  to  the  white  and  rising  moon. 

On  shadowy  hills,  on  shores  where  life  is  gay, 
Each  bush  repeats  it  to  each  flower  that  blows ; 
The  flitting  birds  sing,  '  Poet  grim  and  grey, 
At  last  Love's  honeyed  dreams  thy  spirit  knows.' 

I  told  it  not,  yet  heaven  and  earth  repeat 
The  name  beloved  in  sounds  divine  that  swell, 
And  mid  the  acacia-blossom's  perfume  sweet 
Murmurs  the  Spirit  of  All  — '  She  loves  thee  welL' * 

So  also  in  the  poem  entitled  "In  a  Gothic 
Church,"  the  poet  seeks  the  cool  interior  of  the 
church  not  to  worship  that  God  whom  he  repudi- 
ates, but  to  meet  the  lady  of  his  choice :  — 

They  rise  aloft,  marching  in  awful  file, 
The  polished  shafts  immense  of  marble  grey, 
And  in  the  sacred  darkness  seem  to  be 
An  army  of  giants 

Who  wage  a  war  with  the  invisible  ; 
The  silent  arches  soar  and  spring  apart 
In  distant  flight,  then  re-embrace  again 
And  droop  on  high. 

So  in  the  discord  of  unhappy  men, 

From  out  their  barbarous  tumult  there  go  up 

1  Greene. 
323 


THE  GEEAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

To  God  the  sighs  of  solitary  souls 
In  Him  united. 

Of  yon  I  ask  no  God,  ye  marble  shafts, 
Ye  airy  vaults !  I  tremble  —  but  I  watch 
To  hear  a  dainty  well-known  footstep  waken 
The  solemn  echoes. 

'T  is  Lidia,  and  she  turns,  and,  slowly  turning, 
Her  tresses  full  of  light  reveal  themselves, 
And  love  is  shining  from  a  pale  shy  face 
Behind  the  veil. 

No  better  indication  can  be  given  of  the  spirit 
of  Carducci,  his  strength,  his  manly  courage  amid 
the  conflicts  of  life,  than  is  summed  up  in  the  fol- 
lowing beautiful  sonnet,  which  somehow  recalls 
Browning's  last  song  :  — 

My  lonely  bark  beneath  the  seagull's  screaming 

Pursues  her  way  across  the  stormy  sea ; 

Around  her  mingle,  in  tumultuous  glee, 
The  roar  of  waters  and  the  lightning's  gleaming. 

And  memory,  down  whose  face  the  tears  are  streaming, 
Looks  for  the  shore  it  can  no  longer  see ; 
While  hope,  that  struggled  long  and  wearily 

With  broken  oar,  at  last  gives  up  its  dreaming. 

i 

Still  at  the  helm  erect  my  spirit  stands, 
Gazing  at  sea  and  sky,  and  bravely  crying 

Amid  the  howling  winds  and  groaning  strands : 
Sail  on,  sail  on,  0  crew,  all  fates  defying, 
324 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Till  at  the  gate  of  dark  oblivion's  lands 
We  see  afar  the  white  shores  of  the  dying.1 

Carducci  is  a  link  between  the  older  and  newer 
generation.  So  long  has  he  been  before  the  public 
that  we  can  hardly  feel  like  numbering  him  among 
the  contemporary  poets.  Out  of  the  large  number 
of  these  latter,  three  or  four  merit  mention  here, 
either  from  their  own  greatness,  or  from  the  for- 
tuitous circumstances  which  have  given  them  world- 
wide notoriety. 

One  of  the  strangest  literary  phenomena  of  mod- 
ern Italy  is  Arturo  Graf,  who,  the  son  of  a  German 
father  and  of  an  Italian  mother,  was  born  in 
Greece,  and  is  to-day  one  of  the  foremost  literary 
men  of  Italy.  The  one  unchanging  note  of  his 
poetry  is  pessimism,  darker  even  than  that  of 
Leopardi.  This  singular  gloom,  so  out  of  place  in 

1  This  sonnet  is  based  upon  the  following-  song  of    Heine's 
vhieh  Carducci  also  translated  more  literally  elsewhere :  — 

Mit  schwarzen  Segeln  segelt  mein  SchifE 
Wohl  iiber  das  wilde  Meer ; 
Du  weisst,  wie  sehr  ich  traurig  bin, 
Und  krankst  mich  doch  so  sehr. 

Dein  Herz  ist  treulos  wie  der  Wind 
Und  flattert  hin  und  her ; 
Mit  schwarzen  Segeln  segelt  mein  SchifE 
Wohl  iiber  das  wilde  Meer. 
325 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

sunny  Italy,  is  well  seen  in  the  sonnet  entitled 
"  The  Depth  and  the  End : "  — 

Upon  my  poisoned  lips  all  vain  delight 
Has  died  forever :  hopes  that  might  have  been, 
And  pious  falsehoods  flourishing  unseen 
Within  my  heart,  have  killed  my  heart  outright. 

In  vain  the  rose  takes  fire  on  branches  green, 
In  vain  a  sweet  face  beams  with  love  and  light, 
In  vain  o'er  conquered  skies  the  sun  is  bright ; 
The  depth  and  end  of  all  things  I  have  seen. 

The  end  and  depth,  the  Never  and  For  Ever ; 
And  in  my  bitter  cup,  O  sacred  Death, 
Living,  I  drank  the  drops  that  souls  dissever. 

The  fall  of  worlds  in  ruined  space  I  see ; 
I  hear  the  bells  of  Time  with  failing  breath 
Ring  hours  and  years  through  void  eternity.1 

In  the  "  Mors  Regina  "  we  have  a  literary  pen- 
dant to  the  famous  picture  of  the  Todten-Insel  by 
Bocklin  :  — 

Foam-girt  amid  the  ocean's  thunderous  call, 
A  mountain  measureless  is  heaped  on  high, 
Black  in  the  whiteness  of  the  dazzling  sky, 
And  built  of  fallen  cities,  wall  o'er  wall. 

On  the  steep  summit  where  the  sunbeams  fall, 
A  glorious  fane  doth  to  the  Sun  reply 
From  dome  of  opal  where  the  eagles  fly ; 
And  adamantine  columns  gird  the  hall. 

1  Greene. 
326 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Round  is  the  Temple,  each  way  open  wide  ; 
And  in  the  midst  a  lofty  Throne  designed, 
With  gloomy  purple  hung  on  every  side. 

There  on  the  throne,  aloft  in  splendid  space, 
Sits  Death,  a  crowned  queen :  while  all  mankind 
Lie  prone  around  and  watch  her  changeless  face. 

Among  the  best  known  of  the  younger  poets  of 
to-day  is  Ada  Negri,  who,  born  (1870)  and  raised  in 
poverty,  sings  the  song  of  the  submerged  classes 
in  her  volume  of  verse,  "Fatalita,"  which,  pub- 
lished in  1892,  at  once  took  the  world  by  storm. 
It  was  the  most  popular  volume  of  poems  which 
had  been  published  in  Italy  for  years,  was  trans- 
lated into  German,  and  won  the  enthusiastic  com- 
mendations of  the  veteran  poet  and  novelist,  Paul 
Heyse. 

Far  better  known  to  the  world  of  letters  and  to 
the  stage  in  Europe  and  America  than  any  of  the 
above,  not  even  excepting  Carducci,  is  the  strange, 
erratic  genius  known  as  Gabriele  d'  Annunzio.  The 
taking  of  this  name,  "  Gabriel  of  the  Annunciation  " 
(his  real  name  is  said  to  be  Gaetano  Rapagnetta), 
shows  at  once  the  colossal  vanity  of  this  young  man, 
who  apparently  thinks  he  is  the  herald  of  a  new 
era  of  Renaissance,  destined  to  restore  Italy  to  her 
hegemony  in  the  world  of  art  and  literature. 
327 


THE   GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

D'  Annunzio's  career  is  a  remarkably  precocious 
one.  Born  at  Pescara,  on  the  Adriatic  Sea,  in 
1863,  lie  was  hailed  as  a  genius  at  the  age  of  fif- 
teen, and  became  the  "spoiled  darling"  of  the 
Italians.  From  that  time  down  to  the  present, 
scarcely  a  year  has  passed  that  he  has  not  startled, 
if  not  shocked  the  world  with  some  remarkable 
production.  He  began  as  a  poet,  and  showed  in 
his  earliest  years  a  singular  combination  of  gorgeous 
style  and  morbid  fancy.  The  following  sonnet,  how- 
ever, is  not  only  beautiful  but  free  from  any  taint 
of  immorality :  — 

Beneath  the  white  full-moon  the  murmuring  seas 

Send  songs  of  love  across  the  pine-tree  glade  ; 

The  moonlight,  filtering  through  the  dome-topped  trees, 

Fills  with  weird  life  the  vast  and  secret  shade ; 

A  fresh  salt  perfume  on  the  111  yrian  breeze 

From  seaweeds  on  the  rocks  is  hither  swayed, 

While  my  sad  heart,  worn  ont  and  ill  at  ease, 

A  wild  poetic  longing  doth  invade. 

But  now  more  joyous  still  the  love-songs  flow 
O'er  waves  of  silver  sea ;  from  pine  to  pine 
A  sweet  name  echoes  in  the  winds  that  blow, 
And  hovering  through  yon  spaces  diamantine, 
A  phantom  fair  with  silent  flight  and  slow 
Smiles  on  me  from  its  great-orbed  eyes  divine.1 

1  Greene. 
328 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

The  next  two  sonnets  reveal  his  remarkable  power 
of  descriptive  imagination,  as  well  as  his  tendency 
to  be  influenced  by  other  writers  :  — 


At  times,  exhausted  by  the  pains  austere 

Of  long  night-labors  with  success  uncrowned, 

I  lean  upon  my  books,  and  hear 

The  sea  that  bellows  through  the  night  profound  ; 

And  in  the  northern  wind  a  sudden  fear 

Destroys  each  fairest  dream  my  heart  has  found, 

When  all  my  sweetest  visions  disappear, 

And  doubt  and  cold  and  the  void  have  hemmed  me  round : 

Then  think  I  often  of  a  great  ship  lost, 

With  shattered  keel,  in  the  whirlwind's  storm  and  stress, 

Alone  'twixt  sea  and  heaven,  from  land  afar : 

I  think  of  the  shipwrecked  men  that,  tempest-tossed, 
Helpless  and  hopeless  in  their  last  distress, 
Despairing  cling  to  the  last  remaining  spar. 


Again  !  again !  on  the  remaining  mast 

Like  a  living  bunch  of  fruit  on  the  tempest  swayed, 

The  shipwrecked  men  upon  the  whirlwind  cast 

Utter  their  desperate  cries  and  shout  for  aid. 

In  vain  !  in  vain  !     The  black  hull  sinks  at  last, 

A  horrid  bier,  by  vain  hopes  undelayed, 

Deep  iu  the  roaring  waves  where,  dense  and  vast, 

A  bank  of  seaweed  lurks  in  silent  shade. 

The  cuttlefish  shall  watch  with  hungry  eyes, 
With  horrible  eyes,  with  yellowish  eyes  and  grim, 
That  tragic  agony  of  life  that  dies : 
329 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Then,  in  a  play  of  shadows  strange  and  dim, 
Entwined  around  men's  bodies  serpent- wise, 
Long  tentacles  shall  seize  each  human  limb.1 

The  sonnet  entitled  the  "  Prelude  "  reveals  with 
cynical  self-knowledge  his  predilection  for  foul  and 
slimy  things  in  art :  — 

As  from  corrupted  flesh  the  over-bold 
Young  vines  in  dense  luxuriance  rankly  grow, 
And  strange  weird  plants  their  horrid  buds  unfold 
O'er  the  foul  rotting  of  a  corpse  below ; 

As  spreading  crimson  flowers  with  centered  gold 
Like  the  fresh  blood  of  recent  wounds  o'erflow, 
Where  vile  enormous  chrysalids  are  rolled 
In  the  young  leaves,  and  cruel  blossoms  blow : 

E'en  so  within  my  heart  malignant  flowers 

Of  verse  swell  forth  :  the  leaves  in  fearful  gloom 

Exhale  a  sinister  scent  of  human  breath. 

Lured  by  the  radiance  of  the  blood-red  bowers, 

The  unconscious  hand  is  stretched  to  pluck  the  bloom, 

And  the  sharp  poison  fills  the  veins  with  death.2 

D'  Annunzio  next  devoted  himself  to  the  novel, 
and  produced  in  rapid  succession  "  The  Innocent," 
"  Triumph  of  Death,"  the  "  Virgins  of  the  Rocks," 

1  Greene.     The  influence  of  a  famous  scene  in  Victor  Hugo's 
Toilers  of  the  Sea  is  apparent  in  these  last  lines. 

2  Greene.     Here   D'  Annunzio   is   influenced  by  Baudelaire's 
Flews  du  Mai, 

330 


THE   NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

and  "  Fire,"  —  books  marked  by  wonderful  descrip- 
tions, slender  plots,  skillful  adaptation  of  language 
and  thoughts  borrowed  from  the  writers  of  Italy, 
Germany,  France,  and  even  Russia,  and  stained 
(with  the  exception  of  the  "  Virgins  of  the  Rocks  ") 
with  a  morbid  fondness  for  scenes  of  obscenity  and 
vice.  In  reading  these  books  we  hardly  know  which 
of  our  feelings  is  greater,  admiration  for  the  au- 
thor's extraordinary  gift  of  style,  or  disgust  at  his 
corrupt  imagination. 

Much  the  same  things  may  be  said  of  D'  Annun- 
zio's  dramas,  which  occupy  his  later  period,  and 
which,  through  the  incomparable  acting  of  Eleonora 
Duse,  has  made  D'  Annunzio's  name  known  the 
world  over.  Among  the  dramas  the  two  which  are 
best  known  are  the  "  Dead  City  "  and  "  Francesca 
da  Rimini."  The  former,  full  of  a  gloomy  magnifi- 
cence of  description  of  the  desert,  is  a  strange  in- 
troduction into  modern  drama  of  the  fatality  of  the 
Greek  tragedy,  and  is  vitiated  both  morally  and  as 
a  work  of  art  by  the  far-fetched  device  by  means 
of  which  ancient  horrors  are  made  to  do  service  on 
the  modern  stage. 

The  best  of  all  his  dramas  and  perhaps  his  best 
work  in  general  is  the  "  Francesca  da  Rimini,"  in 
which  the  story  told  so  beautifully  and  with  such 
331 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

incomparable  conciseness  and  delicate  reserve  by 
Dante  in  the  fifth  canto  of  the  "  Inferno  "  is  re- 
told in  detail,  clothed  in  a  wealth  of  description 
and  local  color,  and  steeped  in  an  atmosphere  of 
blood,  treachery,  and  lust. 

Francesca  thinks  she  has  wed  Paolo  Malatesta, 
handsome  and  courtly,  but  discovers  that  he  has 
only  been  the  proxy  for  his  brother,  and  that  her 
real  husband  is  Gianciotto,  Lord  of  Ravenna,  a 
fierce,  cruel  and  tyrannical  cripple.  Her  love,  how- 
ever, has  been  given  to  Paolo,  and  she  cannot  take 
it  back.  The  inevitable  tragedy  of  illicit  love  and  of 
jealous  rage  follows.  The  younger  brother  of  Paolo 
and  Gianciotto  also  loves  his  sister-in-law,  and  be- 
ing repulsed  by  her  as  a  silly  boy  becomes  mad  with 
jealousy  and  reveals  the  truth  to  Gianciotto,  who 
watches  the  lovers,  discovers  their  guilt  and  slays 
them.  This  is  about  all  there  is  to  the  brief  plot, 
the  rest  of  the  play  being  padded  with  long  descrip- 
tions, reminiscences,  and  dialogues,  together  with 
many  episodes  in  which  soldiers,  troubadours,  mer- 
chants, ladies,  and  knights,  a  whole  Canterbury  Pil- 
grimage of  figures,  crowd  the  stage  ;  all  destined  to 
reproduce  the  local  color  of  the  thirteenth  century 
in  Italy,  with  its  strange  contrasts  of  poetry  and 
cruelty. 

332 


THE   NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

Some  of  the  passages  are  strangely  beautiful, 
such  as  that  in  which  Francesca  and  her  sister 
Samaritana,  about  to  separate,  recall  the  days  of 
their  innocent  childhood :  — 

Samaritana.  O,  sister,  sister, 

Listen  to  me  :  stay  with  me  still !   O  stay 
With  me  !  we  were  born  here, 
Do  not  forsake  me !  do  not  go  away, 
Let  me  still  keep  my  bed 
Beside  your  bed,  and  let  me  still  at  night 
Feel  you  beside  me. 

Francesca.     He  has  come. 

Samaritana.  Who  ?  Who  has  come 

To  take  you  from  me  ? 

Francesca.  Sister,  he  has  come. 

Samaritana.     He  has  no  name,  he  has  no  countenance, 
And  we  have  never  seen  him. 

Francesca.  It  may  be 

That  I  have  seen  him. 

Samaritana.     I  have  never  been  apart 
From  you  and  from  your  breath  ; 
My  life  has  never  seen  but  with  your  eyes ; 
O,  where  can  you  have  seen  him,  and  not  I 
Seen  him  as  well  ? 

Francesca.  Where  you 

Can  never  come,  sweetheart,  in  a  far  place 
And  in  a  lonely  place 
Where  a  great  flame  of  fire 
Burns,  and  none  feed  that  flame. 

Samaritana.    You  speak  to  me  in  riddles, 
And  there  is  like  a  veil  over  your  face. 
Ah,  and  it  seems  as  if  yon  had  gone  away, 
333 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

And  from  afar  off 

Turned  and  looked  back ;  and  your  voice  sounds 

As  out  of  a  great  wind. 

Francesco.  Peace,  peace,  dear  soul, 

My  little  dove.    Why  are  you  troubled  ?    Peace  ; 
You  also,  and  ere  long, 
Shall  see  your  day  of  days, 
And  leave  our  nest  as  I  have  left  it ;  then 
Your  little  bed  shall  stand 
Empty  beside  my  bed  ;  and  I  no  more 
Shall  hear  through  dreams  at  dawn 
Your  little  naked  feet  run  to  the  window, 
And  no  more  see  you,  white  and  barefooted, 
Run  to  the  window,  0  my  little  dove, 
And  no  more  hear  you  say  to  me :  "  Francesca, 
Francesca,  now  the  morning-star  is  born, 
And  it  has  chased  away  the  Pleiades." 

Samaritana.    So  we  will  live,  ah  me, 
So  we  will  live  forever ; 
And  time  shall  flee  away, 
Flee  away  always ! 

Francesca.     And  you  will  no  more  say  to  me  at  morn : 
"  What  was  it  in  your  bed  that  made  it  creak 
Like  reeds  in  the  wind  ?  "   Nor  shall  I  answer  you : 
"  I  turned  about  to  sleep, 
To  sleep  and  dream,  and  saw, 
As  I  was  sleeping,  in  the  dream  I  dreamed  .  .  ." 
Ah,  I  shall  no  more  tell  you  what  is  seen 
In  dreams.   And  we  will  die, 
So  we  will  die  forever  ; 
And  time  shall  flee  away, 
Flee  away  always  ! 

Samaritana.    O  Francesca,  0  Francesca,  you  hurt  my 
heart, 

334 


THE   NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

And  see,  Francesca, 

You  make  me  tremble  all  over.1 

Still  another  poetical  scene  is  that  in  which 
Paolo  returns  from  Florence,  whither  he  had  gone 
as  Captain  of  the  People,  and  finds  himself  drawn 
irresistibly  to  the  presence  of  Francesca,  where 
both  yield  to  the  sweet  spell  of  love :  — 

Francesca.  Paolo,  give  me  peace  ! 

It  is  so  sweet  a  thing  to  live  forgetting, 
But  one  hour  only,  and  be  no  more  tossed, 
Out  of  the  tempest. 
Do  not  call  back,  I  pray, 
The  shadow  of  that  time  in  this  fresh  light 
That  slakes  my  thirst  at  last 
Like  that  long  draught 
That  at  the  ford  I  drank, 
Out  of  the  living  water. 
And  now,  I  desire  now 
To  think  my  soul  has  left 
That  shore  to  come  into  this  sheltering  shore, 
Where  music  and  where  hope  are  sisters  ;  so 
To  forget  all  the  sorrow  that  has  been 
Yesterday,  and  shall  be 
To-morrow,  and  so  let 
All  of  my  life,  and  all  the  veins  of  it, 
And  all  the  days  of  it, 
And  all  old  things  in  it,  far-away  things, 
But  for  one  hour,  one  hour, 
Slip  away  quietly,  a  quiet  tide, 

1  From  Arthur  Symons's  translation,  published  by  Frederick 
A.  Stokes  Company,  New  York. 

335 


THE  GREAT  POETS   OF  ITALY 

Unto  that  sea, 

Even  these  eyes  might  behold  smilingly, 

Were  it  not  hidden  by  the  tears  that  tremble 

And  do  not  fall.     O  peace,  peace  in  that  sea 

That  was  so  wild  with  waves 

Yesterday,  and  to-day  is  like  a  pearl. 

Give  me  peace ! 

Paolo.  It  is  the  voice  of  spring 

I  hear,  and  from  your  lips  the  music  runs 
Over  the  world,  that  I  have  seemed  to  hear, 
Riding  against  the  wind, 
Sing  in  the  voice  of  the  wind, 
At  every  turn  of  the  way, 
At  every  glade,  and  high 

On  the  hilltops,  and  on  the  edges  of  the  woods, 
And  under  them  the  streams, 
When  my  desire  bent  back, 

Burning  with  breath,  the  mane  of  my  wild  horse, 
Over  the  saddle-bow,  and  the  soul  lived, 
In  the  swiftness  of  that  flight, 
On  swiftness, 

Like  a  torch  carried  in  the  wind,  and  all 
The  thoughts  of  all  my  soul,  save  one,  save  one, 
Were  blown  backward,  spent 
Like  sparks  behind  me. 

The  last  scene,  the  consummation  of  the  tragedy, 
is  told  with  genuine  dramatic  skill.  Gianciotto, 
who  is  about  to  set  out  for  Pesaro,  of  which  he  has 
been  named  Podesta,  has  been  told  by  Malatestino 
of  the  intended  visit  of  Paolo  to  Francesca.  He 
feigns  to  carry  out  his  planned  journey,  but  returns 
336 


THE   NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

in  the  middle  of  the  night.  In  the  meantime,  Paolo 
conies  to  Francesca's  room,  and  the  lovers,  in  fancied 
security,  repeat  to  each  other  once  more  the  "  old, 
old  story :  "  — 

Francesco.  It  says 

Here  in  the  book,  here  where  you  have  not  read : 
"  We  have  been  one  life ;  it  were  a  seemly  thing 
That  we  be  also  one  death." 

Paolo.  Let  the  book 

Be  closed ! 

[He  rises,  closes  the  book  on  the  reading  desk,  and  blows  out 
the  taper. 

And  read  in  it  no  more.    Not  there 
Our  destiny  is  written,  but  in  the  stars, 
That  palpitate  above 
As  your  throat  palpitates, 
Your  wrists,  your  brow, 

Perhaps  because  they  were  your  garland  once, 
Your  necklet  when  you  went 

Burningly  through  the  ways  of  heaven  :  From  what 
Vineyard  of  earth  were  these  grapes  gathered  in  ? 
They  have  the  smell 
Of  drunkenness  and  honey. 

They  are  like  veins,  they  are  swollen  with  delight, 
Fruits  of  the  night !     The  flaming  feet  of  Love 
Shall  tread  them  in  the  winepress.    Give  me  your  mouth 
Again !  Again ! 

[Francesca  lies  back  on  the  cushions,  forgetful  of  everything. 
All  at  once,  in  the  dead  silence,  a  violent  shock  is  heard  on  the 
door,  as  if  some  one  hurled  himself  against  it.    The  lovers  start 
up  in  terror,  and  rise  to  their  feet. 
The  Voice  of  Gianciotto.    Francesca,  open  !  Francesca ! 

[The  woman  is  petrified  with  tenor.   Paolo  looks  around  the 
337 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

room,  putting  his  hand  to  his  dagger.  He  catches  sight  of  the 
bolt  of  the  trap-door. 
Paolo  (in  a  low  voice.)     Take  heart!  take  heart,  Francesca! 

I  will  get  down 
By  way  of  the  trap-door. 
Go,  go,  and  open  to  him. 
But  do  not  tremble. 

[He  lifts  the  trap-door.    The  door  seems  to  quiver  at  the  re- 
peated blows. 

The  Voice  of  Gianciotto.    Open,  Francesca,  open ! 
Paolo.    Open  to  him !    Go  now. 
I  wait  beneath.     If  he  but  touches  yon 
Cry  out  and  I  am  with  you. 
Go  boldly,  do  not  tremble  ! 

[He  begins  to  go  down,  while  the  woman,  in  obedience  to  him, 

goes  to  open  the  door,  tottering. 

The  Voice  of  Gianciotto.    Open  !  upon  your  life,  Francesca, 
open! 

[The  door  being  opened,  Gianciotto,  armed  and  covered  with 
dust,  rushes  furiously  into  the  room,  looking  for  his  brother 
in   every  direction.    Suddenly  he  catches   sight  of   Paolo, 
standing  head   and  shoulders  above   the  level  of  the  floor, 
struggling  to  free  himself  from  the  bolt  of  the  trap-door,  which 
has  caught  in  a  corner  of  his  cloak.     Francesca  utters  a  pier- 
cing cry,  while  Gianciotto  falls  upon  his  brother,  seizing  him 
by  the  hair,  and  forcing  him  to  come  up. 
Gianciotto.    So,  you  are  caught  in  a  trap, 
Traitor !     They  are  good  to  have  you  by  the  hair, 
Your  ringlets ! 
Francesca.    Let  him  go  !    Me,  take  me ! 

[The  husband  loosens  his  hold.    Paolo  springs  up  on  the  other 
side  of  the  trap-door,  and  unsheathes  his  dagger.    Gianciotto, 
drawing  back,  bares  his  sword,  and  rushes  upon  him  with  ter- 
rible force.    Francesca  throws  herself  between  the  two  men ; 
338 


THE  NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

but  as  her  husband  has  leant  all  his  weight  on  the  blow,  and 
it  unable  to  draw  back,  her  breast  is  pierced  by  the  sword,  she 
staggers,  turns  on  herself,  towards  Paolo,  who  lets  fall  his 
dagger,  and  catches  her  in  his  arms. 
Francesca  (dying).     Ah,  Paolo ! 

[Gianciotto  pauses  for  an  instant.  He  sees  the  woman  clasped 
in  the  arms  of  her  lover,  who  seals  her  expiring  life  with  his 
lips.  Mad  with  rage  and  sorrow,  he  pierces  his  brother's  side 
with  another  deadly  thrust.  The  two  bodies  sway  to  and  fro, 
for  an  instant,  without  a  sound.  Then,  still  linked  together, 
they  fall  at  full  length  on  the  pavement.  Gianciotto  stoops  in 
silence,  bends  his  knee  with  a  painful  effort,  and,  across  the 
knee,  breaks  his  blood-stained  sword. 

If  we  were  to  close  this  book  with  Gabriele 
<T  Annunzio,  we  should  perhaps  leave  the  reader 
with  too  gloomy  a  view  of  the  present  tendencies  of 
Italian  literature.  D'  Annunzio  does  not  represent 
the  whole  literary  spirit  of  Italy,  and  a  large  number 
of  his  countrymen  repudiate  his  morbid  immorality 
and  his  extravagance.  Indeed,  he  is  more  popular 
in  France  than  in  his  own  country.  The  better 
spirit  of  Italy  finds  expression  in  the  man  who, 
both  as  a  poet  and  novelist,  is  the  real  leader  of 
Italian  literature  to-day.  Antonio  Fogazzaro  is  a 
man  of  genius,  of  genuine  Christian  character,  of 
a  tender  and  romantic  love  for  nature  and  for  all 
that  is  "  pure  and  of  good  report  "  in  life.  He  is 
most  widely  known  as  a  novelist,  his  best  books 
339 


THE   GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

being  "  Daniele  Cortis,"  "  II  Piccolo  Mondo  An- 
tico,"  and  "  II  Piccolo  Mondo  Moderno."  Yet  lie 
began  as  a  poet.  The  spirit  which  animates  all  his 
work,  and  has  made  him  the  favorite  of  the  best 
classes  hi  Italy,  is  well  illustrated  in  the  following 
poems,  the  first  being  a  "  Sonnet  on  the  Cathedral 
of  St.  Mark  at  Venice :  "  — 

Cold  is  my  soul  like  thee,  0  glorious  fane  ! 
And  thy  mosaics'  mingled  shadow  and  gold 
Are  like  the  shapes  that  I  in  fancy  mould 
Mid  tomb-like  silence  of  my  heart's  domain, 

Where  love  lies  buried,  love  that  shone  in  vain, 
Like  thy  gemmed  treasure,  useless  and  untold  ; 
And  to  the  hoped  ideal,  the  Faith  I  hold, 
One  lamp  lifts  up  a  light  that  ne'er  shall  wane. 

Yet  sometimes  thro'  thy  gate  that  moaning  opes 
Sunlight  comes  in,  whiffs  o'  the  salt  lagoon, 
Sad  silent  forms  that  linger  for  awhile ; 

And  so  to  me,  at  times,  come  sunlit  hopes, 
Quick  fever-fits  of  life  that  vanish  soon, 
Or  a  sweet,  tender  face  that  stays  to  smile. 

In  the  beautiful  poem  entitled  "  A  Sera  "  (Even- 
ing), of  which  we  can  only  give  an  extract  here, 
Fogazzaro  reproduces  with  singular  felicity  the 
tender,  half-melancholy  impressions  made  on  the 
mind  of  a  deeply  religious  man,  one  who  has  re- 
flected much  on  the  meaning  of  life,  and  who, 
340 


FOGAZZARO 


THE   NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

standing  at  eventide  in  the  Alpine  landscape  of 
his  native  land,1  listens  to  the  bells  as  they  call  to 
one  another  from  mountain  and  valley :  — 

The  Bells  of  Oria. 
Westward  the  sky  o'ergloometh, 
The  hour  of  darkness  cnmet.li. 

From  spirits  of  Evil, 
From  Death  and  the  Devil, 
Keep  us,  O  Lord,  night  and  day ! 

Come,  let  us  pray. 

The  Bells  of  Osteno. 
O'er  waters  waste  we  too  must  sound, 
From  loaely  shores  where  echoes  bound, 

Our  voice  profound. 

From  Spirits  of  Evil, 
From  Death  and  the  Devil, 
Keep  us,  0  Lord,  night  and  day! 

Come,  let  us  pray. 

The  Bells  of  Puria. 
We,  too,  remote  and  high, 
From  the  dark  mountains  cry : 

Hear  us,  O  Lord ! 

From  Spirits  of  Evil, 
From  Death  and  the  Devil, 
Keep  us,  O  Lord,  night  and  day  ( 

Come,  let  us  pray! 

Echoes  from  the  Valley. 
Come,  let  us  pray! 

1  Fogazzaro  was  bora  (1842)  in  Vicenza,  but  for  many  yean 
has  lived  in  Oria  ( Valsolda)  on  Lake  Lugano. 
341 


THE  GREAT  POETS  OF  ITALY 

AM  the  Bella. 

The  light  is  born  and  dies, 

Enduring  never ; 
Sunset  follows  sunrise 

Forever ; 
All  things,  O  Lord,  all-wise ! 

Save  thine  Eternity, 
Are  vanity. 

Echoesfrom  the  Valley. 
Vanity! 

All  the  Bells. 

Come,  let  us  pray  and  weep, 

From  the  heights  and  from  the  deep, 

For  the  living,  for  them  that  sleep, 

For  so  much  sin  unknown,  and  so  much  pain, 

Have  mercy,  Lord ! 
All  suffering  and  pain, 
That  does  not  pray  to  Thee ; 
All  error  that  in  vain 
Does  not  give  way  to  Thee ; 
All  love  that  must  complain, 
Yet  yields  no  sway  to  Thee, 

Pardon,  O  Holy  One ! 

Echoesfrom  the  Valley. 
O  Holy  One !  l 

1  Greene.  Three  very  good  books  on  modern  Italian  poetry 
have  been  published  in  recent  years,  —  namely,  Howells'  Italian 
Poets  of  To-day;  Greene's  Italian  Lyrists  of  To-day,  and  Sewall's 
Poems  of  Giostie  Carducci. 

342 


INDEX 


INDEX 


AOQUASPABTA,  Cardinal,  mis- 
sion to  Florence,  36. 

Addison,  influence  on  Italian 
literature,  259. 

Adone,  poem  by  Marini,  dis- 
cussion of,  255-6 ;  influence 
of,  256;  quotation  from,  256-7. 

Adrian,  Pope,  96. 
s,  59. 
id,  195,  223. 

Aix-la-Chapelle,  Treaty  of ,  259. 

Alberico,  Vision  of,  56. 

Albert,  Emperor,  murder  of,  40. 

Albert!,  Leon  Battista,  169-70. 

Albigenses,  Crusade  against,  12. 

Aleardi,  Aleardo,  309. 

Alfieri,  Vittorio,  215,  262,  286  ; 
founder  of  Italian  tragedy, 
263;  life,  264;  as  writer  of 
tragedies,  264  ff . ;  style  of, 
265 ;  character  of  his  trage- 
dies, 265-6 ;  his  reform  of 
Italian  tragedy,  265-6 ;  object 
in  writing  his  tragedies,  266  ; 
founder  of  patriotism  in  Ital- 
ian literature,  266-7 ;  Philip 
IL,  267  ff. ;  and  Italian  Uni- 
ty, 285. 

Alighieri,  origin  of  name,  30. 

Alighieri,  Antonia,  daughter  (?) 
of  Dante,  33. 

Alighieri,  Beatrice,  daughter  of 
Dante,  33. 

Alighieri,  Dante  ;  see  Dante. 


Alighieri,  Jacopo,  son  of  Dante, 
33. 

Alighieri,  Pietro,  son  of  Dante, 
33. 

Ambrogini,  Angelo;  see  Poli- 
tian. 

Amicis,  Edmondo  de,  309. 

Aminta,  of  Tasso,  217,  223. 

Angelica,  in  Boiardo's  Orlando 
Innamorato,  191 ;  in  Ariosto'a 
Orlando  Furioso,  196  ;  falls  in 
love  with  Medoro,  203,  204  ff. 

Annunzio,  Gabriele  d',  309 ;  dis- 
cussion of,  327  ff. ;  sonnets 
by,  328-330;  Prelude,  330; 
novels,  330,  331;  dramas, 
331  ff. ;  Francesco  da  Himini, 
331  ff. 

A nsfl i ii .  9. 

Antepnrgatory,  those  punished 
in,  87. 

Antoniano,  Inquisitor,  219. 

Apennines,  18. 

Aquinas ;  see  St.  Thomas 
Aquinas. 

Arabs,  7 ;  in  Sicily,  13. 

Aretino ;  see  Bruui,  Leonardo. 

Arezzo,  120,  165. 

Argyropoulos,  173. 

Ariosto,  Ludovico,  26,  182,  188, 
189,  190,  215,  217,  223,  261, 
291;  life  of,  192,  193;  his 
Satires,  193-4 ;  his  Orlando 
Furioso,  194  ff. ;  character  of, 


345 


INDEX 


193;  death  of,  193;  relation 
of  his  poem  to  that  of  Boiardo, 
194;  his  reflections  on  life, 
213;  his  humor,  213. 

Aristophanes,  261. 

Aristotle,  14,  117,  270. 

Annida,  enchantress  in  Jerusa- 
lem Delivered,  236 ;  carries  off 
Rinaldo,  247  ff. 

Arnaut,  Daniel,  16. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  108 ;  Sonnet 
on  Austerity  of  Poetry  (Jaco- 
pone  da  Todi),  24  (note)  ;  on 
Leopardi.  292. 

Arnold  of  Brescia,  2. 

Arthur,  King,  and  his  Round 
Table,  19. 

Arthurian  Romances,  190,  191. 

A  Sera,  poem  by  Fogazzaro, 
340  ff. 

Augustus,  age  of,  182. 

Avignon,  147 ;  Petrarch  settles 
at,  121 ;  Papacy  at,  121. 

Azeglio,  Massimo  d',  novels,  287. 

BANDELLO,  Matteo,  183. 
Bandiera  brothers,  285. 
Bannerman,    Anne,    translator, 

141. 
Banquet,   of  Dante,  37,  43,  86 

(note),  145. 

Bassville,  Hugon  de,  286  (note). 
Bassvilliana,  of  Monti,  286,  287. 
Baudelaire,  influence  on  Ga- 

briele  d'  Annunzio,  330. 
Beatrice  Portinari,  17, 44  ff.,  72, 

128;   love  of  Dante  for,  33; 

death  of,  51 ;  sends  Vergil  to 

guide  Dante,  59 ;  meets  Dante 

in  "  Earthly  Paradise,"    106  ; 

compared  with  Laura,  127. 


Belcari,  171. 

Bembo,  Pietro,  184. 

Beneventum,  Battle  of,  34,  87. 

Benivieni,  171,  172. 

Berni,  Francesco,  183. 

Bertrand  de  Born,  seen  by  Dante 
in  Hell,  73. 

Biondo,  Flavio,  166. 

"  Blacks,"  party  in  Florence,  35. 

Boccaccio,  Giovanni,  168,  169, 
182, 183, 251  ;  on  Dante's  edu- 
cation, 31 ;  founder  of  Italian 
prose  and  of  the  modern  novel, 
146, 150 ;  life,  145  ff. ;  becomes 
acquainted  with  Petrarch, 
147 ;  learns  Greek,  147 ;  ad- 
mirer of  Dante,  147, 148 ;  lec- 
tures on  Divine  Comedy,  148; 
life  of  Dante  and  commen- 
taries on  Divine  Comedy,  148 ; 
character  of,  148  ff. ;  religious 
conversion,  149,  150;  death 
of,  150;  Latin  works,  150; 
Decameron,  150  ff. ;  prose 
style,  152  ;  his  Italian  poetry, 
153  ff . ;  his  popularity,  153 ; 
his  influence,  153. 

Bocklin,  Arnold,  326. 

Boethius,  65  (note). 

Bohn  Library,  26  (note),  145 
(note),  250  (note),  283  (note). 

Boiardo,  Matteo,  26, 182,  189  ff., 
194,  217,  223 ;  Orlando  Inna- 
morato,  183 ;  190  ff. 

Boileau,  Le  Lutrin,  260. 

Bologna,  18, 21,  27,  126 ;  visited 
by  Dante  in  exile,  39. 

Bologna,  University  of,  visited 
by  Dante,  32;  Petrarch  at, 
121 ;  Tasso  at,  216;  Carducci 
at,  309. 


INDEX 


Boniface  VIII.,  60 ;  claims  Tus- 
cany as  heir  of  Countess 
Matilda,  36. 

Botta,  Carlo,  historian,  288. 

Bourbon,  House  of,  in  Italy, 
252,  254. 

Bracciol'ni,  Poggio,  165,  166. 

Browning,  Robert,  113,  324; 
Sordello,  13  ;  quotation  from 
(One  Word  More),  51. 

Bruuetto  Latini;  see  Latini, 
Brunette. 

Bruni,  Leonardo,  165. 

Buonconte  da  Montefeltro,  post- 
mortem fate  of  body,  87  ff. 

Butler,  A.J..  115  (note). 

Byron,  292;  translator,  214 
(note),  258. 

CACCIAGUTOA.  great-great-grand- 
father of  Dante,  30;  speaks 
of  his  ancestors,  31 ;  prophe- 
sies Dante's  exile,  37,  38,  39 ; 
seen  by  Dante  in  Paradise, 109. 

Caesar,  93. 

Calvo,  Bonifacio,  13. 

Campaldino,  Battle  of,  87; 
Dante  present  at,  32. 

Capet,  Hugh,  King  of  France, 
96. 

Caprona,  Dante  present  at  sur- 
render of,  32. 

Capua,  6. 

Capuana,  Lnigi,  309. 

Carducci,  Giosue,  quoted,  114 ; 
discussion  of,  309  ff . ;  educa- 
tion, 309 ;  as  a  professor,  309, 
310, 318 ;  popularity  in  Italian 
literature,  310;  as  a  critic, 
310,  319;  as  a  poet,  310  ff.; 
and  Romanticism,  310,  314; 


difficulty  of  style,  311 ;  char- 
acter of,  310,  311;  influence 
on  Italian  poetry,  311  ;  like- 
ness to  Horace,  311 ;  love  for 
Nature,  311,  312 ;  poem  on 
Sunlight  and  Love,  312  ;  Son- 
net to  the  Ox,  313;  poem  on 
the  Certosa  at  Bologna,  813, 
314;  Butt  flora,  314;  Monte 
Mario,  316,  317 ;  Sonnet  on 
Some,  318  ;  and  House  of  Sa- 
voy, 318 ;  as  an  investigator, 
318 ;  prose  -writings,  319 ;  Son- 
net on  the  Sonnet,  319  ;  Sonnet 
on  Vergil,  320 ;  love  for  Dante, 
320;  Sonnet  on  Dante,  321; 
and  United  Italy,  321 ;  Neo- 
Paganism  of,  322 ;  antipathy 
to  Christianity,  322 ;  Pan- 
theism, 322,  323 ;  In  a  Gothic 
Church,  323,  824;  My  Lonely 
Bark,  324. 

Cariteo,  254. 

Carlovingian  romances,  188, 191. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  113 ;  Essay  on 
Dante  116. 

Cary,  H.  F.,  translator,  28; 
translation  of  the  Divine  Corn- 
en  y,  116. 

Casella,  met  by  Dante  in  Purga- 
tory, 82  ff . 

Castiglione,  Baldasarre,  183. 

Cato,  guardian  of  Purgatory,  81. 

Cavalcanti,  Gnido,  27 ;  sonnet 
to,  by  Dante,  28 ;  answer  to 
Dante's  sonnet,  28 ;  father  of, 
seen  by  Dante,  69. 

Celestine  V.,  60. 

Cellini,  Benvenuto,  183. 

Cerchi,  family  of,  36. 

Certaldo,  Boccaccio  dies  at,  150. 


347 


INDEX 


Certosa  at  Bologna,  poem  on,  by 
Carducci,  313. 

Cervantes,  213. 

Chansons  de  Gexte,  influence  on 
Italy,  25, 26  ;  development  of, 
in  Italy,  189  ff. 

Charlemagne,  crowned  Empe- 
ror, 7 ;  hero  of  Chansons  de 
Geste,  25  ;  in  Orlando  Innama- 
rato,  191 ;  in  Orlando  Furioso, 
195. 

Charles  of  Anjou,  252  ;  called  to 
Italy  by  Pope  Urban  IV.,  34  ; 
restores  the  Guelphs  to  power 
in  Florence,  35. 

Charles  of  Valois,  called  to  Flo- 
rence to  pacify  the  city,  36. 

Charles  VI.,  Emperor,  122. 

Charles  VHL,  of  France,  252. 

Charpentras,  121. 

Chateaubriand,  292. 

Chaucer,  153,  165. 

Chiabrera,  Gabriello,  257,  258. 

Childe  Harold,  258. 

Chrysoloras,  Johannes,  166. 

Church,  Dean,  Essay  on  Dante, 
116. 

Church  of  Christ,  symbolized  in 
"  Earthly  Paradise,"  106. 

Ciani,  Gioachino,  149. 

Cicero,  4,  121. 

Cimabue,  95,  117. 

Cino  da  Pistoia,  27. 

Cinzio,  Cardinal,  222. 

Cinzio,  Giraldo,  183. 

Cloridan  and  Medoro,  episode  in 
Orlando  Furioso,  196  ff. 

Clorinda,  heroine  of  Tasso's 
Jerusalem  Delivered,  231,  233 ; 
and  Tancred,  234,  235,  241  ff . 

Colonna  family,  122. 


Colonna,  friend  of  Petrarch,  124. 

Colonna,  Vittoria,  184 ;  Michael 
Angelo's  sonnets  on,  185-6. 

Comedy,  in  Italy,  261. 

Conrad,  Emperor,  made  Knight 
of  Cacciaguida,  30. 

Conradin,  death  of,  34,  35. 

Constantinople,  6,  166. 

Convivio,  of  Dante  (see  Ban- 
quet), 43,  44. 

Copernicus,  56. 

Corneille,  263 ;  influence  on  Ital- 
ian Drama,  259;  influence  on 
Alfieri,  265. 

"  Counter  Reformation,"  253. 

Countess  Matilda,  36. 

Crusades,  9. 

DACBE,  translator,  135,  136. 

Dante,  7,  13,  14,  16,  17,  18,  25, 
126,  145,  147,  173,  180, 186, 
213,  215,  248,  251,  255,  291, 
292,  310,  314, 332  ;  influenced 
by  Guinicelli,  21 ;  and  reli- 
gious revivals,  23 ;  sonnet  to 
Guido  Cavalcanti  and  Lapo, 
28 ;  sadness  of  his  life,  29 ; 
ancestry,  30 ;  early  life,  30 ; 
family,  31 ;  education,  31 ; 
marriage,  32  ;  children,  33 ; 
politics  and  public  life,  33 ; 
enters  public  life,  34 ;  joins 
guild  of  physicians,  35 ;  ex- 
iled, 37  ;  decrees  against,  37 ; 
story  of  his  exile,  37-9 ;  re- 
fuses amnesty,  39  ;  letter  to  a 
friend  in  Florence,  39 ;  hopes 
in  Henry  VII.  of  Luxemburg, 
40  ;  last  refuge,  40 ;  last  days 
and  death,  41 ;  legends  of  hia 
exile,  41;  his  character,  42, 


348 


INDEX 


43;  Banquet,  43;  De  Mo- 
narchia,  43, 44 ;  New  Life,  dis- 
cussion of,  44  S. ;  first  meeting 
with  Beatrice,  45 ;  sonnet  on 
Beatrice,  47  ;  sonnet  to  pil- 
grims after  death  of  Beatrice, 
51 ;  Divine  Comedy,  discus- 
sion of,  54  ff. ;  influence  on 
Boccaccio,  14S ;  sonnets  by 
Boccaccio  on,  155,  156 ; 
quoted,  162  ;  compared  with 
Tasso,  216 ;  and  Italian  Unity, 
285  ;  Carducci's  love  for,  320  ; 
sonnet  on,  by  Carducci,  321. 

Daiite  da  Majano,  27. 

Decameron  of  Boccaccio,  discus- 
sion of,  150  ff. 

De  Monarchia  of  Dante,  43,  44. 

Didactic  poetry  in  North  Italy, 
22. 

Dies  Irae,  22. 

Dis,  City  of,  described,  67,  68. 

Divine  Comedy,  14, 17,  147,  148, 
169, 213,  215 ;  date  of  compo- 
sition, 40 ;  discussion  of,  54  ff. ; 
symmetrical  arrangement  of, 
54;  symbolism  and  alle- 
gory of,  55 ;  outline  of,  58  ff .  ; 
story  of  Francesca  da  Ri- 
mini, 63  ff. ;  Dante  meets 
Brunette  Latini,  71,  72 ;  story 
of  Ulysses'  last  voyage,  74  ff.; 
story  of  Ugolino,  77  ff . ;  Dante 
meets  Sordello,  89  ff. ;  descrip- 
tion of  "  Valley  of  Princes," 
89  ff. ;  description  of  "  Earthly 
Paradise,"  102  ff. ;  meeting 
with  Beatrice,  106 ;  ascent  to 
Paradise.  108  ff. ;  characteris- 
tics of  its  greatness.  113,  114, 
115. 


"  Dolce  stil  nuovo,"  18. 

Donati,  Corso,  36,  108. 

Donati,  Gemma,  marries  Dante, 

32,33. 
Donati,  Piccarda,  seen  by  Dante 

in  Paradise,  108. 
Don  Carlos  of  Schiller,  267. 
Don  Quixote,  213. 
Drama,  Italian,  215;  sketch  of, 

in  Italy,  261. 
Dryden,  153. 
Duse,  Eleonora,  331. 

"  EARTHLY  PARADISE  "  de- 
scribed, 102  ff. 

Elizabeth,  Queen,  age  of,  182. 

Encyclopaedias,  mediaeval,  10. 

England  visited  by  Dante  (?), 
39 ;  influence  of,  on  Italy,  259. 

En/o,  son  of  Frederick  II.,  lyric 
poet,  14. 

Erminia,  in  love  with  Tancred, 
episode  in  Jerusalem  Deliv- 
ered, 236  ff. 

Este,  House  of,  190,  193,  212, 
258. 

Este,  Cardinal,  192. 

Este,  Duke  of,  192. 

Euphuism,  256. 

Fabliaux,  151. 

Facetiae  of  Poggio  Bracciolini, 

160. 
Fairfax,  translation  of  Jerusalem 

Delivered,  mentioned,  250. 
Farinata  degli  Uberti,  seen  by 

Dante  in  Hell,  69. 
Fasani,  23. 
Ferrara,    Humanists    at,     159; 

Boiardo  at,  190 ;  Ariosto  at, 

192 ;  Tasao  at,  216. 


349 


INDEX 


Fiammetta,  sonnets  of  Boccac- 
cio on,  154. 

Ficino,  Marsiglio,  167,  173. 

Filelfo,  Francesco,  166,  167. 

Filicaja,  Vincenzo,  sonnet  on 
Italy,  258-9. 

Firenzuola,  183. 

"  Flagellants,"  23,  24. 

Flanders,  visited  by  Dante,  39. 

Florence,  becomes  centre  of  new 
school,  21 ;  early  poets  of, 
27;  building  activity  in,  34; 
political  condition  of,  34; 
Dante's  love  for,  39 ;  and 
Petrarch,  122 ;  Boccaccio  at, 
146  ff. ;  Humanists  at,  159; 
Renaissance  at,  163,  164  S. ; 
centre  of  Humanist  move- 
ment, 163. 

Fogazzaro,  Antonio,  309,  339  ff.; 
as  a  novelist,  339, 340 ;  A  Sera, 
340  S. ;  Sonnet  on  St.  Mark's 
Cathedral  in  Venice,  340. 

Foscolo,Ugo,285,2S7,319  (note). 

France,  influence  on  Italy,  252, 
259,  284. 

Francesca  da  Rimini,  40 ; 
story  of,  63  S. 

Francesca  da  Rimini,  drama 
by  d'  Annunzio,  331  ff. 

Francis ;  see  St.  Francis. 

Franco-Italian  Epic,  26. 

Franks,  3,  5. 

Frederick  II.,  13,  15,  16, 34,  70, 
87  ;  as  a  poet,  14. 

Frederick  Barbarossa,  34. 

Free  cities,  rise  of,  7  ;  increased 
power  of,  9. 

French  language,  origin  of,  5. 

French  Revolution,  in  Italy,  286, 
287. 


French  romances,  influence  on 
Italian  literature,  25,  26. 

GAMBARA,  VERONICA,  184. 

Garibaldi,  254,  285. 

Garnett,  History  of  Italian  Liter- 
ature, 180. 

Gaspary,  26  (note). 

Gaul,  5. 

Geibel,  Emanuel,  263. 

Genoa,  7,  13 ;  Renaissance  at, 
163. 

German  emperors,  contest  with 
popes,  9. 

Germany,  7 ;  visited  by  Dante, 
39  ;  influence  on  Italy,  259. 

Ghibellines,  33,  35,  284. 

Gian  della  Bella,  decree  of,  35. 

Gioberti,  Vincenzo,  288. 

Giotto,  95,  117- 

Giusti,  Giuseppe,  satirist,  287. 

Ginstiniani,  Lionardo,  171. 

Gladstone,  W.  K,  32,  113,  292. 

Goethe,  77,  190 ;  influence  on 
Italian  literature,  259. 

Goldoni,  Carlo,  215,  259,  261, 
262. 

Gongorism,  256. 

Gonzaga,  Margaret,  marries  the 
Duke  of  Este,  221. 

Gonzaga,  Prince  Vincenzo,  221. 

Gothic  Church,  In  a,  poem  by 
Carducci,  323, 324. 

Goths,  2,  6, 284. 

Graf,  Arturo,  309,  325  ff. ;  The 
Depth  and  the  End,  326  ;  Mora 
Eegina,  326,  327. 

Gray,  influence  on  Italian  liter- 
ature, 259. 

Greek,  Boccaccio  and  the  study 
of,  147. 


350 


INDEX 


Greene,  translator,  315,  317, 
320,  326,  328,  330;  Italian 
Lyrists  of  To-day,  342  (note). 

Gregory  VII.,  8,  9,  94. 

Guarini,  182  ;  Pastor  Fido,  153. 

Guelphs,  33,  284. 

Guerrazzi.  Francesco  Domenico, 
novels,  287. 

Guerrini,  Olindo,  309. 

Guicciardini.  183. 

Guiuicelli,  Guido,  27,  45,  126; 
poem  on  Love  and  the  Gentle 
Heart,  19, 20 ;  life  and  works, 
18 ;  follower  of  Guittone 
d'  Arrezzo,  18 ;  and  new  con- 
ception of  love,  18  ;  influence 
on  Dante,  21 ;  makes  love 
spiritual,  21 ;  seen  by  Dante 
in  Purgatory,  97. 

Guittone  d'  Arrezzo,  18 ;  literary 
ancestor  of  Dante,  16  ;  leader 
of  early  Tuscan  School,  16 ; 
life  and  works,  16,  17 ;  Sonnet 
to  the  Virgin  Mary,  17. 

HAMBURG,  House  of,  in  Italy, 

252,  254. 
Heine,  325. 

Hell,  location  and  shape  of,  57. 
Henry  III.  of  England,  90. 
Henry  VII.  of  Luxemburg,  54 ; 

comes  to  Italy,  40;  Dante's 

hopes  in,  40 ;  death  of,  40. 
Hermaphrodites,  of    Panormita, 

160. 

Heyse,  Paul,  327. 
Hohenstaufens,  15,  34. 
Holy  Roman  Empire,  158. 
Homer,  quoted  by  Dante,  45  ;  in 

Limbo,   61 ;    Boccaccio    and, 

147. 


Horace,  Dante's  knowledge  of, 

32 ;    influence    on    Carducci, 

311,  314. 
How  ells,  William  D.,  translator, 

295,  308 ;  Italian  Poets  of  To- 

day,  342  (note). 
Hugo,     Victor,     influence     on 

Gabriele  d'  Annunzio,  330. 
Humanism,   definition   of,   157, 

158,  160;  at  Rome,  163;  at 

Florence,  163. 
Humanists,  158,  159,  160,  171 ; 

moral  and  religious  character 

of,  160,  161 ;  and  Latin  Ian. 

guage,  169. 
Huns,  6,  8,  284. 
Hunt,  Leigh,    translator,    133; 

Stories  from  the  Italian  Poets, 

214  (note). 

ILAKIO,  FRA,  41. 

Iliad,  195,  223. 

Innocent  VI.,  Pope,  147. 

Inquisition,  253. 

I  Promessi  Sposi  of  Manzoni, 
289. 

Italian  language,  earliest  ex- 
amples of,  5,  6. 

Italian  literature,  origins  of, 
1  ff . ;  recent  origin  of,  1 ; 
lack  of  originality,  11 ;  Pro- 
vencal influence  on,  11 ;  con- 
dition of,  in  the  17th  and  18th 
centuries,  254  ff. 

Italian  nation,  origin  of,  3,  4. 

Italy,  sonnet  on,  by  Filicaja,  258 ; 
troubadours  in,  12 ;  history  of, 
in  16th  and  17th  centuries, 
252  ff. ;  condition  of,  under 
Spanish  rule,  253;  unity  of, 
285 ;  poem  on,  by  Leopardi, 


351 


INDEX 


293,  294,  295 ;  Carducci's  love 
for,  317,  318. 

JACOBS,  JOSEPH,  Stories  from  the 
Decameron,  153  (note). 

Jacopone  da  Todi,  story  of  his 
conversion,  24. 

Jeremiah,  quotation  from,  51. 

Jerusalem  Delivered,  182,  195, 
219,  223 ;  story  of,  224  ff. ; 
Sophronia  and  Olindo,  226  ff. ; 
Erminia,  236  ff. ;  Tancred  and 
Clorinda,  234,  235,  241  ff. ; 
Armida  and  Rinaldo,  247  ff. 

Jesuits,  253,  254,  259 ;  teachers 
of  Tasso,  216,  219. 

John,  King  of  France,  122. 

Julius  II.,  Pope,  and  the  Renais- 
sance, 163. 

KEATS,  JOHN,  153,  319. 
Klopstock,  influence  on  Italian 

literature,  259. 
Knights  of  St.  Mary,  16. 
Kraus,  F.  X.,  113. 

LAMARTINE,  ALPHONSE  DE,  292, 

309. 

Lanfranc,  9. 
Lapo  Gianni,  27 ;  sonnet  to,  by 

Dante,  28. 
Latin  language,  two  forms  of, 

4;    long    continuance    of,   in 

Italy.    6;    language    of    the 

Church,  9. 
Latin  literature,  in  Italy  during 

Middle  Ages,  9,   10,    11 ;    in 

15th  century,  168,  169. 
Latin  races,  origin  of,  3. 
Latini,  Brunette,  hia  Tresor,  31 ; 

met  by  Dante  in  Hell,  71. 


Laudi,  23,  24,  25,  171, 172. 

Launcelot,  65. 

Laura  de  Noves,  186 ;  dies,  124 ; 
treatment  of,  in  Petrarch's 
poetry,  127;  life  of,  128; 
sonnets  on,  by  Petrarch,  129  ff. 

Laurentian  Library,  Florence, 
165. 

Leo  III.,  Pope,  crowns  Charle- 
magne  emperor,  7. 

Leo  X.,  Pope,  and  Renaissance, 
163. 

Leontius  Pilatus,  professor  of 
Greek  at  Florence,  147. 

Leopardi,  Giacomo,  288,  310, 
325 ;  discussion  of,  285  ff. ; 
life,  289  ff. ;  ill  health,  289  ff. ; 
as  a  classical  scholar,  290; 
wanderings  of,  291 ;  death, 
291 ;  philosophy  of,  292 ;  pes- 
simism of,  292  ff. ;  as  a  poet, 
293  ff. ;  poem  on  Italy,  293-6 ; 
desire  for  love,  295  ff. ;  poem 
on  Silvia,  296  ff. ;  love  for  Na- 
ture, 298 ;  poem  on  the  Setting 
of  the  Moon,  298  ff. ;  poem  on 
the  Infinite,  299,  300  ;  Night 
Chant  of  a  Nomad  Asiatic 
Shepherd,  300  ff . ;  Sappho's 
Last  Song,  305  ff. ;  poem  to 
Himself,  308. 

Leopardi,  Count  Monaldo,  father 
of  Giacomo,  289. 

Limbo,  kind  of  souls  in,  61. 
Lisle,  Leconte  de,  312. 
Livy,  119. 

Lloyd,  Charles,  translator,  283. 

Lofft,  Capel,  translator,  129. 
Lombards,  2,  3,  6,  7,  284. 

Lombardy,  3. 

Longfellow,    H.   W-,  113,   153, 


352 


INDEX 


250;  quotations  from,  29, 
41 ;  translator,  116, 187. 

Louis  XIV.,  age  of,  182. 

Love,  conventional  conception 
of,  in  Provencal  and  Sicilian 
poetry,  14 ;  new  conception 
of,  in  Italian  poetry,  17,  18 ; 
becomes  spiritualized  in  Guiui- 
celli,  21. 

Lowell,  J.  R.,  113  ;  quoted,  114 ; 
Essay  on  Dante,  116. 

Lucan,  in  Limbo,  61. 

Lucia,  92. 

Lucifer,  57,  80,  95. 

Ludovico  il  Moro,  252. 

Lunigiana,  visited  by  Dante  in 
exile,  39. 

MACAULAY,  LORD,  258. 
Macgregor,  translator,  130,  131, 

134, 137,  138,  145. 
Machiavelli,  Niccol6,  183 ;  Man- 

dr agora  of,  261. 
Maffei,  Scipio,  his  Merope,  264. 
"Malebolge,"73. 
Manfred,  34 ;  death  of,  87. 
Manzoni,   Alessandro.    264 ;    I 

Promessi  Sposi,  287  ;  dramas, 

287  ;  discussion  of,  288, 289. 
Margarita,  Queen  of  Italy,  friend 

of  Carducci,  310. 
Marini.  Giovanni  Battista,  255  S. 
Marinism,  256. 
Marsigli,  Luigi,  164,  165. 
Martin,  Sir  Theodore,  translator, 

289,  299,  300,  305,  307. 
Matilda,  107. 

Mazzini,  Giuseppe,  285,  288, 293. 
Medici  family,  188. 
Medici,   Cosimo  de',  165,    167, 

179. 


Medici,  Ginliano  de',  175. 

Medici,  Lorenzo  de',  170,  171, 
173,  189,  252  ;  life,  179 ;  u  • 
poet,  180,  182. 

Medici,  Piero  de',  179. 

Medoro ;  see  Cloridan  and  Me- 
doro. 

Medoro,  wins  the  love  of  An- 
gelica, 203,  204. 

Merope,  of  Maffei,  264. 

Metastasio,  Pietro,  262,  263 ;  bis 
musical  dramas,  262,  263. 

Metellus,  93. 

Michael  Angelo,  184  ff. 

Middle  Ages,  difference  be- 
tween, and  the  modern  world, 
117,  118. 

Milton,  John,  57,  292;  influ- 
ence on  Italian  literature,  259. 

Minos,  judge  in  Hell,  63. 

Moliere,  261 ;  influence  on  Gol- 
doni,  259,  262. 

Monnier,  Le  Quattrocento,  256 
(note). 

Montaperti,  battle  of,  35,  69; 
poem  on,  by  Guittone  d'  Arez- 
zo,  16. 

Montecassino,  109. 

Monte  Corvo,  41. 

Monte  Mario,  poem  by  Carducci, 
316, 317. 

Montepulciano,  birth-place  of 
Politian,  173. 

Monti,  Vincenzo,  286, 287. 

Montpellier,  University  of,  Pe- 
trarch at,  121. 

Morgante,  poem  by  Pulci,  189. 

Murrone,  Peter;  see  Celestine  V. 


NAPLES,  Boccaccio  at,  146 ;  Re- 
naissance  at,  163,  164;   Uni- 


353 


INDEX 


versity  of,  founded  by  Fred- 
erick II.,  14. 

Napoleon,  Vincenzo  Monti  and, 
287;  ode  on  his  death  by 
Monti,  289. 

Nardi,  183. 

Negri,  Ada,  309,  327. 

Neo-Paganism,  of  Carducci,  322. 

New  Learning,  147. 

New  Life,  of  Dante,  14,  28,  42, 
55,  145  ;  story  of,  44  ff. ;  final 
words  of,  52. 

Niccoli,  Niccol6,  165. 

Niccolini,  Giovanni  Battista.  287. 

Nicholas  V.,  Pope,  163,  166. 

Niebnhr,  on  Leopardi,  290. 

Night  Chant  of  a  Nomad  Asiatic 
Shepherd,  poem  by  Leopardi, 
300  ff. 

Niobe,  95. 

Normans,  2,  3,  6,  284. 

Northern  France,  troubadonrs  in, 
12. 

Northern  Italy,  share  in  indi- 
genous lyric  poetry,  21 ;  re- 
ligious and  didactic  poetry, 
22. 

Norton,  C.  E.,  translator  of  Di- 
vine Comedy,  116. 

Nott,  translator,  140,  142. 

Novettino,  151. 

Noves ;  see  Laura. 

Noves,  Audebert  de,  father  of 
Petrarch's  Laura,  128. 

ODERISI  of  Adubbio,  95. 
Odi  Barbare  of  Carducci,  Con- 
test over,  311. 
Old  French,  1. 

Ongaro,  Francesco  dall',  308. 
Orfeo,  of  Politian,  175. 


Orlando  Furioso,  of  Ariosto, 
215 ;  analysis  of,  195 ;  episode 
of  Cloridan  and  Medoro, 
196  ff. ;  madness  of  Orlando, 
204  ff.  ;  death  of  Zerbino, 
208 ff.;  charm  of,  212,213; 
represents  Renaissance,  213 ; 
style  of,  218. 

Orlando  Innamorato,  of  Boiardo, 
discussion  of,  190  ff. 

Ossian,  influence  on  Italian  lit- 
erature, 259. 

Ostrogoths,  3. 

Othello,  270. 

Ovid,  119  ;  Ars  Amatoria,  sym- 
bolical interpretation  of,  11. 

Oar,  Sonnet  on,  by  Carducci,  313. 

Oxford,  visited  by  Dante  (?),32. 

PADUA,  University  of,  visited 
by  Dante,  32,  39;  Tasso  at, 
216. 

Panormita,  164. 

Pantheism,  poem  by  Carducci, 
322,  323. 

Paradise,  location  and  descrip- 
tion of,  107  ff. 

Paradise  Lost,  195. 

Parini,  Giuseppe,  260,  261. 

Paris,  visited  by  Dante  (?),  32, 
39 ;  and  Petrarch,  123 ;  Boc- 
caccio born  in,  146. 

Patriotism,  lack  of,  in  Italy,  8 ; 
in  Italian  literature,  286,  287, 
288. 

Pellico,  Silvio,  288. 

Pescara,  birth-place  of  d'  An- 
nunzio,  328. 

Pest,  described  in  Decameron, 
151 ;  Laura  dies  of,  128. 

Peter  of  Aragon,  90. 


354 


INDEX 


Peter  Damian,  9,  109. 

Peter  Lombard,  9. 

Petrarch,  Francesco,  168,  169, 
173,  180,  182,  184,  186,  193, 
222,  251,  254,  255,  291,  310 ; 
begins  movement  of  Renais- 
sance, 119;  life  of,  120  ff . ; 
education,  121 ;  Latin  works 
of,  125,  126;  friends,  122; 
crowned  poet  at  Rome,  123 ; 
happy  life,  123;  melancholy, 
123  ;  strange  contrast  in  char- 
acter, 124, 137  ;  death  of,  125 ; 
Africa,  1 25  ;  lyrical  poetry  of, 
126  ff. ;  Italian  poetry,  127 
ff. ;  sonnets  to  Laura  in  life, 
129  ff . ;  sonnets  to  Laura  in 
death,  138  ff. ;  Latin  letters, 
translation  of,  145  (note) ;  in- 
different to  Dante,  147;  fol- 
lowers of,  164. 

Petrarchism,  184. 

Petroni,  Pietro  de',  Carthusian 
monk,  149. 

Philip  II.  of  Alfieri,  discussed, 
267,  268  ;  quoted,  268  ff. 

Philip  IK.  of  France,  90. 

Pico  della  Mirandola,  167. 

Pier  delle  Vigne,  14 ;  seen  by 
Dante  in  Hell,  70. 

Pierre  Vidal,  troubadour,  in 
Italy,  12. 

Pistoia,  the  "Whites"  and 
the  "  Blacks"  emigrate  from, 
35,  36. 

Pius  II.,  Pope,  166. 

Plautus,  261. 

Plotinus,  290. 

Polenta,  Guido  da,  visited  by 
Dante,  40. 

Politian,  169,  170,  171,  180  ;  as 


a  scholar,  167,  168  ;  as  a  poet, 

173;  life,  173;  Dance  Song, 

174,  175. 
Political     poetry,     in     Tuscan 

School,  16. 
Pontano,  164. 
Pope,  Alexander,  Rapt  of  the 

Lock,  260  ;  influence  on  Italian 

literature,  259. 
Pope,  temporal  power  of,  and 

Carducci,  318. 
Portinari;  see  Beatrice. 
Portinari,  Folco,  44. 
Porto,  Luigi  da,  183. 
Prati,  Giovanni,  309. 
Preciosity,  256. 
Provencal,  1,  2,  11-15,  25. 
Provence,    11 ;     destruction    of 

its  prosperity,  12. 
Ptolemaic  system,  56,  117. 
Pulci,  Lnigi,  26, 188,  189,  214. 
Purgatory,   13,  16;  location  and 

shape,  57,  80. 

QUADRIVIUM,  32. 

RACINE,  influence  on  Italian 
drama,  259 ;  influence  on  Al- 
fieri, 265. 

Rambaud  de  Vaqueiras,  in 
Italy,  12. 

Rapaguetta,  Gaetano;  see  An- 
minzio,  G.  d'. 

Raphael,  188. 

Ravenna,  33,  102  (note),  147. 

Reformation,  158,  252. 

Religious  literature  in  northern 
Italy,  22. 

Religious  revivals  in  Italy,  22, 
23. 

Renaissance,  157  ff.,  182 ;  begun 


355 


INDEX 


by  Petrarch,  119  ;  Petrarch's 
influence  on,  126;  definition 
of,  157 ;  difference  between, 
and  the  spirit  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  160  if.  ;  accomplish- 
ment of,  in  15th  century,  168 ; 
reaches  its  climax  in  16th 
century,  188;  reflected  in 
Ariosto,  213  ;  decline  of,  251, 
252  ;  moral  character  of,  252. 

Revival  of  Learning,  157  ;  defi- 
nition of,  158. 

Rienzi,  Cola  di,  2, 124. 

Einaldo  of  Tasso,  223. 

Rinaldo  and  Armida,  story  of, 
in  Jerusalem  Delivered,  247  ff. 

Risorgimento,  285,  286 ;  Car- 
ducci  and,  310. 

Robert,  King  of  Naples,  122. 

Romagna,  Province  of,  18. 

Romance  languages,  13;  origin 
of,  4,  5. 

Roman  Church,  and  Carducci, 
322. 

Roman  civilization,  degradation 
of,  8. 

Romanticism,  in  Italy,  288  ;  op- 
posed by  Carducci,  oil ; 
hatred  of,  by  Carducci,  316. 

Rome,  downfall  of,  3 ;  Petrarch 
crowned  poet  at,  123 ;  Pe- 
trarch makes  pilgrimage  to, 
136 ;  Renaissance  at,  163, 
164  ;  sonnet  on,  by  Carducci, 
318. 

Roscoe,  Thomas,  translator,  179, 
257. 

Rose,  translator  of  Ariosto, 
197  ff. 

Rossetti,  Dante  G.,  translator, 
17,  19,  154;  Dante  and  His 


Circle,  26  (note)  ;  translation 

of  New  Life,  116. 
Rossetti,    Gabriel,  commentary 

on  Divine  Comedy,  288. 
Rossetti,  Maria,  A  Shadow  of 

Dante,  115. 
Rudolph,  Emperor  of  Germany, 

90. 
Suit  Hora,  poem  by  Cardncci, 

314 
Rusk  in,  John,  113 ;  quoted,  87. 

SACHETTI,  FRANCO,  183  (note). 

"  Sacred  Representations,"  171. 

Sade,  Ugo  de,  husband  of  Pe- 
trarch's Laura,  128. 

Sainte-Beuve,  on  Leopardi,  292. 

Salutato,  Coluccio,  164,  165. 

Sannazaro,  182 ;  Arcadia,  153 ; 
influence  of,  254. 

Santa  Croce,  church  of,  in  Flo- 
rence, 34  ;  monastery  of,  41. 

Santo  Spirito,  church  of,  in  Flo- 
rence, 164. 

Santo  Stephano,  church  of,  in 
Florence,  148. 

Sappho's  Last  Song,  poem  by 
Leopardi,  305  ft. 

Saracens,  6,  8,  284. 

Savoy,  House  of,  285,  318. 

Scala,  Bartolommeo  della,  39. 

Scartazzini,  Companion  to  Dante, 
115. 

Schiller,  Don  Carlos,  267. 

Scipio  Africanus,  125. 

Selve,  poem  by  Lorenzo  de'  Me- 
dici, 180-182. 

Serafino,  255  (note). 

Setting  of  the  Moon,  poem  by 
Leopardi,  298  ff. 

Seven  Wise  Men,  151. 


356 


INDEX 


Sewall,  Frank,  translator,  312 ; 

Potms  rfGiosue  Carducci,  342. 
Sforza,  Galeazzo,  175. 
Shelley,  220 ;  translator  of  son- 
net to  Cavali-anti,  2S. 
Shakespeare,  ir,3,  255,  270. 
Sicilian   dialect,    5,    15 ;    poets, 

first  to  write   in  Italian,  14 ; 

poetry,    14,    24 ;     school    of 

poetry,  15,  17,  18,271. 
Sicily,  3,  4,  7,  120  ;  civilization 

under  Frederick,  13. 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  183. 
Silvia,  poem  by  Leopardi,  296  ff. 
Sismondi,  Literature  of  the  South 

of  Europe,    179    (note),   257 

(note). 
Sofonigba,   drama   by  Trissino, 

263. 
Sonnet,  sonnet  on,  by  Carducci, 

319. 
Sophronia  and  Olindo,  episode 

in  Jerusalem  Delivered,  226  ff. 
Sordello,  13 ;  met  by  Dante  in 

Purgatory,  89  ff. 
Sorrento,   Tasso  born  at,   216 ; 

Tasso    returns  to,    220 ;    at- 
tacked by  Turks,  223. 
Spain,  3 ;   troubadours  in,   12 ; 

end  of  rule  of,  in  Italy,  259. 
Spaniards  in  Italy,  252, 253, 284. 
Speculum  Majus,  10. 
Spenser,  Edmund,  183. 
Stabat  Mater,  25. 
Stampa,  Gaspara,  184. 
Stanzas  of  Politian,  175,  179. 
Statius,  119 ;  seen  by  Dante  in 

Purgatory,  96  ff . 
St.  Anna,  Asylum  of,  Tasso  in, 

221. 
St.  Benedict,  109. 


St.  Bernard,  quoted,  161. 

St.  Bonaventura,  10;  seen  by 
Dante  in  Paradise,  109. 

St.  Brandon,  Voyage  of,  56. 

St.  Clement,  church  of,  6. 

St.  Dominic,  story  of,  109. 

Stecchetti,  Lorenzo ;  see  Guer- 
rini,  Olindo. 

St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  22,  108. 

St.  James,  112. 

St.  John,  112. 

St.  Mark's  Cathedral,  Venice, 
sonnet  on,  by  Fogazzaro,  340. 

St.  Onof rio,  monastery  of,  Tasso 
dies  in,  222. 

St.  Paul,  59,  124. 

St.  Peter,  112. 

St.  Thomas  Aquinas,  10,  117; 
seen  by  Dante  in  Paradise, 
108. 

Sunlight  and  Love,  poem  by  Car- 
ducci, 312. 

Swabia,  House  of,  34. 

Symbolism  in  literature,  10, 11. 

Symonds,  J.  A.,  Introduction  to 
Dante,  115  (note)  ;  translator, 
170, 172,  175, 182  ;  on  the  Re- 
naissance, 187 ;  quoted,  254. 

Symons,  Arthur,  translator,  335. 

TANCRKD  and  Clorinda,  episode 
in  Jerusalem  Delivered,  234, 
235,  241  ff. 

Tasso,  Torquato,  182,  190,  251, 
291 ;  life  of,  216  ff. ;  educa- 
tion, 216  ;  insanity  of,  217  ff. ; 
legend  of  his  love  for  Leonora 
d'Este,  218,  219;  wanderings 
of,  220  ff.;  in  Rome,  222; 
death  of,  222  ;  works,  222  ff. ; 
Aminta,  153,217,223;  Torrit- 


357 


INDEX 


mondo,  223  ;  Jerusalem  Deliv- 
ered, story  of,  223  ff. 
Taylor,  J.   B.,   translator,  130, 

186. 

Tebaldeo,  255. 
Tennyson,     Lord,     113,     153; 

quoted,  42. 
Terence,  261. 
Testi,  Fulvio,  258. 
Thackeray,  W.  M.,  214. 
Theodoric,  3. 
Tholuck,  113. 
Thomas  of  Celano,  follower  of 

St.  Francis,  22. 
Torrismondo  of  xasso,  223. 
Tragedy,  in  Italy,  263  ff. 
Trajan,  story  of  his  justice,  94  ff. 
Trissino,  Sofonisba,  263. 
Triumphs  of  Petrarch,  128. 
Trivium,  32. 
Troubadours,  11, 12,  21, 27, 126 ; 

imitated    by    North    Italian 

poets,  12;  influence  in  Sicily, 

14 ;  conception   of  love,  18 ; 

Italian,   13 ;  spiritual,  of  St. 

Francis,  22. 

Tugdale,  Vision  of,  56. 
Tuscan  dialect,  5,  15  ;    poetry, 

24 ;  school  of  poets,  15,  16. 
Tuscany,  becomes  centre  of  early 

Italian  poetry,  15 ;  disorders. 

of,  in  Dante's  time,  33. 

UGOLINO  DKLLA  GHERAR- 
DESCA,  story  of,  77  ff. 

Ulysses,  248;  story  of  his  last 
voyage,  74  ff. 

Umbria,  home  of  St.  Francis, 
22. 

Urban  II.,  Pope,  buried  at  Sor- 
rento, 224. 


Urban    VI.,  Pope,    122;    calls 
Charles  of  Anjou  to  Italy,  34. 

VALDICASTELLO,  birth-place  of 

Carducci,  309. 
Valla,  Lorenzo,  164,  169. 
"  Valley  of  Princes,"  scene  in, 

89  ff. 

Vandals,  3. 
Varchi,  183. 
Vasari,  Giorgio,  183. 
Vaucluse,  125,  141 ;  Petrarch  at, 

122. 

Venetian  dialect,  5. 
Venice,  7,  13  ;  Dante's  embassy 

to,  41 ;   and  Petrarch,    122 ; 

Renaissance  at,  163. 
Vergil,  4,  11,  32,  119,  121 ;  sent 

by  Beatrice  to  guide  Dante, 

59 ;  sonnet  on,   by  Carducci, 

320. 

Verlaine,  Panl,  314. 
Verona,    first   place   visited  by 

Dante  in  exile,  39. 
Victor  Emannel,  286. 
Villain,  on  Dante's  education, 

31. 

Vincent  of  Beauvais,  10. 
Visigoths,  3. 
Volkspoesie,    Italian,     in     15th 

century,  170. 
Voltaire,  261,  263  ;  influence  on 

Italian  drama,  259. 
"  Vulgar  Latin,"  4,  5. 

WASHINGTON,     GEORGE,     266 

(note). 

Weimar,  190. 

"  Weltschmerz,"  127,  288,  292. 
"Whites,"  party  of  Florence, 

35  ;  banished,  36,  37. 


358 


INDEX 


Wiffen,  translator  of  Jerusalem 

Delivered,  224  ff. 
Witte,  113. 

Wollaston,  translator,  142. 
"  Wood  of  Suicides,"  70. 
Woodhonselee,  translator,  141. 
Wordsworth,  319  ;  quoted,  159. 
Wrangham,  translator,  136, 139, 

140. 


Wrottesley,  translator,  132. 

YOUNG,  influence  on  Italian  lit- 
erature, 259. 
"  Young  Italy,"  288. 

ZERBINO,  death  of,  episode  in 

Orlando  Furioso,  208  ft 
Zorzi,  Bartolomeo,  13. 


359 


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